Just yesterday, I thought the whole world revolved around my whims, my desires, what and who I wanted.
At sixteen, I dreamed big—la vida perfecta (the perfect life): the best school, loyal friends, and, of course, the ultimate love story.
You know, the kind that feels ripped from a romance novel.
But if you'd asked me back then, I'd have laughed at the idea of falling in love. I wasn't ready for emotions. Oh, I made that clear to everybody.
Every love letter? Torn up before the ink even dried.
Every flower? Tossed aside like yesterday's trash.
And every hopeful heart? Crushed without mercy.
"I'm not ready for love," I'd say with an air of untouchable pride, and I believed it.
Then I turned eighteen, and life decided to flip the script. College began, and there he was.
The guy. The one. Or so I thought.
I remember staring at him, my heart doing somersaults while my brain screamed,
Wait! Are you about to drop the sky-high standards you've clung to? Are you even ready for this love thing?
Confusion wrapped around me like a fog.
For years, I'd convinced myself I was untouchable, invincible. But there he was ; making me question everything.
Then came the words.
"Would you go out with me?"
"I'm Daniel... And you?"
"Brenda!"
It just stumbled out of my lips with no control.
Woah. Just... woah.
I still see myself beaming like an idiot, the corners of my lips betraying my carefully curated cool.
***
His words were smooth, dipped in honey and promises:
"I'd never hurt you."
"I'll protect your heart."
"You mean the world to me."
So, I said yes, well, sort of. We had a deal.
No official dating until I was ready.
And to my surprise, he agreed.
And he didn't just talk. His actions? Perfection.
He was my knight in everyday armor.
There when I needed him. Gentle when I faltered.
Oh, those hours spent in class, sharing ideas, laughing at inside jokes.
He shielded me from the harsh edges of the world and kept me grounded.
Our secret conversations—on phones, through texts, in whispers—felt like stolen treasures.
He was everything I thought I wanted.
Until he wasn't.
Six months in, my parents stepped in.
Or rather, he stepped in.
My guardian. The man they trusted to guide me, protect me.
He watched over me like a hawk, saw through the cracks in my secret love, and tore us apart.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't painless. I cried, ached, and let go.
Slowly, the feelings I thought were love evaporated like mist under the sun.
Was it ever love? I wondered. If it could fade so quickly, was it real?
And that's when life pulled another twist.
The one who tore us apart—the guardian—became my anchor. My safe harbor.
At first, he was a father figure. I visited him after school, cooked for him sometimes.
Little acts of gratitude. But gradually, imperceptibly, he became something more.
And one day, in the soft glow of a moment I didn't see coming, he became the man I shared my first kiss with.
How did it happen?
I close my eyes, and the memories rush back like waves crashing against the shore.
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