Four years ago, I started talking to a guy I kinda liked more than I should have. I was sixteen and I didn’t know how to handle the butterflies in my stomach (as people would say). It was the first time I waited for texts and stayed up late to hold a conversation for a person I felt something “special” with. Of course, I was fun and I never stopped blushing until the texts stopped coming and I fell asleep waiting for my phone to ring.
I remember staring at the ceiling still desperately clenching on to my phone. Nothing arrived. I reached for my journal—a red college notebook perfect for the precocious emotions I was going through.
I revisited the article I submitted to CandyMag four years ago. It’s a bit pretentious, but it pretty much sums up my experience of a teenage heartbreak.