I have loved.

And I’ve loved many things. Material things, living beings, people like you, people who are not you, people who will never be like you. Love has been loose with us; ours is looking for a needle in a haystack, with the rain clouds above our heads and hands clumsy with desperation. We’ve weaved through the clumps of opportunities, only to let them slip past our young fingers in our efforts to find something we knew was there—yes, yes it was there.

The problem was, we did not know how to look. Or, truthfully, maybe I did not.

Or… I did not want to.

To blame the fact that we, I, have been young and naive, to be so callous about love, is truly what makes me young and naive and also… blind. To return what you felt had felt like an obligation; grasping at the straws, wondering what I was supposed to be looking for, what I was supposed to be looking at. I’ve watched you dive your hands in, hands full with love that you cradled and held out for me. I remembered reaching out and taking it. I remembered the heat your hand and the length of your fingers weaved, the crevasse between your shoulder and your jaw where I did not fit, like a puzzle in the wrong space.

I’ve listened to your dreams, I’ve listened to your future. It was me.

I was supposed to be your future. Of all people you could have wanted, you wanted me to have that future with.

I did not.

No, it isn’t because I did not want you; I have considered it. Thought about it. But a future with me? Truth to be told, I didn’t know what the future held for me. I still do, today, I still don’t know what the future holds for me, but what I do know is that the thought of you seeing a future with me had frightened me, and I didn’t know why. Should I blame it for being indecisive and sightless? Maybe. I did not pull my hands away from you. No, I wrenched it out of yours, viciously, took everything and too much. I did not give. I chose blindness, I chose ignorance, I chose anything that did not have to do with you all because I did not know what I was supposed to be looking at.

I have loved.

But maybe not in the way you would have wanted, not the way I would have imagined. Maybe I did, and maybe I just refuse to call it love. Yet for the sake of this, alright; let us call you my first love, let us call you the one I won’t ever deserve. You see, no matter what you say, things are clear for me now; it had not been love.

Contradictory, isn’t it? It had not been love. Maybe it had been close to it, maybe it was nothing more than an aching attachment of what I felt for you. It was close, but it was not enough.

I have loved.

Yes, maybe I loved you. But love is not enough to hold on to straws I can’t understand why I can’t understand, and I’m sorry. Sorry will never be enough, but maybe I have not been, and will never be enough for you. One day, maybe we would be able to look up without our hands in the haystack with rain clouds overhead.

Maybe next time, we would love until love was enough.