In my effort to improve my writing, I am participating in Sunday Scribblings. This week's prompt was to write about first love:
My first love was a nerve-wracking affair. He was older than he should have been, a college freshman paired with my 15-year-old self. My carriage was that of an older girl, so the age difference wasn't obvious at first glance. Still, I knew that there was a gap in our experience levels and I struggled whenever we were with his friends not to embarrass myself. There were many times that I felt he was silently chuckling at my mistakes. The moments we spent alone, however, made my discomfort worthwhile.
My first love wasn't a classically handsome man, but I caught my breath every time he walked into a room. And the letters he wrote while he was away! The language in those missives would surely have caused the mother of a 15-year-old great concern if they had gotten into her hands. Luckily, my immaturity did not give me a lack of discretion.
My first love didn't last long, a year or a little longer. Unlike most young lovers, I didn't expect us to be together forever. I knew I wasn't ready for him, and the stress of trying to grow up faster took its toll on me. I ended up the way he told me I would on our last date: married with a house full of kids, still living in the same town where I grew up. I'm happy with my life, but I wouldn't want him to see me like this. If he ever thinks of me, I want him to envision me in a city far from here, experiencing everything that 15-year-old girl had only read about.