Lessons Learned

I had it all planned out. He was going to perfect and we, we were going to be able to do anything. We were going to be able to climb mountains and save nations and fly. We were going to be magnificent, a glorious pair, wreathed in heavenly light and an aura of happiness. He was going to be the boy I dreamed of, the one who would lift me up and spirit me away, and we would laugh and talk about everything we had in common- and everything we didn’t. He was going to be intelligent and witty and make me laugh. My face was going to be sore because I had smiled so much. We were going to be the king and queen of our own summer world, filled with puddles of sunshine and little sisters and overcrowded swimming pools. I tell you, in my head, he was incredible. But then we walked down shady city streets and he told me about everything he’d done and the other girls he’d pretended to love. We meandered aimlessly down artificially lit, tiled hallways in the middle of the day and he talked about things I’d never even thought about doing and about how he wanted to kiss me. I nodded and grimaced while he talked, and he didn't notice. Everything I’d imagined was gone, carried away by his terrible teenage soul. I felt the canyon between us grow until we were so far apart that I couldn’t even see him anymore. I walked myself home, because I didn’t want him to know where I lived. I didn’t cry, because I didn’t feel anything. I just felt empty, like he’d pulled all the life out of me. I saw him again in a French class, where he pretended he spoke French by using the word orange. He moved away and I switched French classes and it didn’t matter anymore. All that was left was a strange concoction of a calm hatred and remorse and a feeling that I had learned something. And you know what I’ve learned? Don’t ever plan it out.