I love him. But I cannot hold onto him forever. It seems inevitable that this fine being, with his dash of blond curls and hazelnut eyes, that he will discover more. Or worse, he will discover that I am not quite as special as he once believed. I will no longer be the apple of his eye, if I am even now.

We were encased in a bubble of security; a bubble of limited social boundaries primarily dominated by male testosterone and with only a sprinkle of female authority. He was young, he was naive, and he was part of the ‘system.’

Now he is older.
Now he is breaking out of the forms of his once 'perfect' conformity.
He is going to London.
He is going into the heart of civilisation, life, music, art, emotions, fun, happiness, fashion, enjoyment, academia.
He is going to explore the unknown depths of a world that he has only seen through the glare of the Television, on some dated and silly programme that portrays a fantasy lifestyle that no one can afford.

This is because I am bitter.

He was concerned about my coming here. He fretted and worried and angst over who I might meet, who might dazzle me, lead me astray, up and beyond this so-called ‘teenage love’ that I have with him. I objected, and only now do I begin to understand and experience the same concerns that he had for me. I have met people; I have gone to the very edge of what would be deemed ‘allowed’ or ‘appropriate’ when one is in a relationship with someone else. I have been there, and I dislike myself for it. Yet, I am also appreciative of what these experiences helped me to discover.

I always come back to him. I have to. He is the core of my being, of my very soul.

He is not simply ‘who I am with.’ He is who I am. He knows me inside out and I do not resent him for this.

He is my first love.