Final Coming of Age Story

February 1, 2005

            I stare blankly at my flan. The one ominous candle stares back at me. The waiters and waitresses gather around and sing happy birthday. I smile meekly and hope no one realizes I am sad. We all are. We all are trying to celebrate my birthday by eating Mexican food and gathering together, but no one is happy. It is a lie to say we are happy on the inside. Our faces glowing with smiles say otherwise. I keep my smile plastered on my face. I secretly hope it is convincing everyone. I am thankful for everyone meeting on my birthday and I do not want anyone to think otherwise. But I am still sad.

            It is not a panging sad feeling in my chest. It is just tight. Tight like I am holding my breath underwater lying on the bottom of a swimming pool staring at the sky. But it is not even like that because I feel happy then. I feel happy when I watch the waves crinkle the rays of sunlight as they touch the bottom of the pool. It feels tight like someone is clenching my ribs in an iron grip and will not let go, even though I want them to.

            It is hard for me to look at the group gathered: my mom and dad, my sister, Lauren, Ms. Husband and her two kids Laura and Matthew, Mr. Lening, Mrs. Lening, and their son Jayton. Everyone acts sympathetic towards me, but I am not the one who needs sympathy. It just happened to be my birthday. It makes me want to cry, but not for myself, for them. It is not fair.

            I start to think about how there should be another chair at the table. It should be occupied. I decide to no longer dwell on that thought—salt water will not taste good in my flan.

            Once dessert is finished and the bills are paid, we gather to say goodbye to everyone. Hugs are given all around and exclamations of “happy thirteenth birthday!” Ms. Husband hugs me and apologizes that it had to happen on my birthday. It makes it hard not to cry—not for me, but for her. Her birthday wish to me is so selfless. She gathered everyone. She made the party. She picked a Mexican food restaurant in Pearland, TX to make it a short commute for everyone. But she still looks me in the eye and apologizes for something that affects her most. It just happened to be my birthday. No one could help that.

            My breath eases as my family and I enter the car. I stare out the window. I watch the light poles flick by. It is getting late. The sun is already down and I start to think of my early wake-up call for school. I hope to get some sleep, but I know it might be hard. I have to remember two years ago. If I do not, then it is like I am not paying homage to him. I am not remembering. I must remember. I feel like if I do not remember it will make him sad. Like he can see us from heaven and does not want to be forgotten. I know this is silly, but I cannot help but believe it. I do not want to be forgotten once I pass from this earth.

            Once the car stops, I tiredly walk into the house. It is getting late. I kiss my mom goodnight and my dad. Lauren does not grudge me a hug on my birthday, even though she is not a big hug person. I get ready for bed and then slide between the sheets. I stare at my ceiling. Tears well up in my eyes. My nose becomes obnoxiously stuffy. Despite this warning the tears still come. I must remember. It has only been two slow years since it happened. I think back to that day and the subsequent year that followed: my best friend moving, being put into the public school system, and the financial difficulty. That year teams with sad, heart-breaking events. Mr. Rick passing marks the beginning and saddest of the events. Death never knocked on the door of a close friend of my family’s until then. I begin to think about how different my life became. How different everyone’s life became. I became quiet and reserved. No more being a loud and rambunctious kid. Real life hit me like a speeding train on a track with no brakes that day. I took my school seriously and did not mingle much with others. Everyone began to adjust. Only two years and all of us still kept changing—like a ripple effect or dominoes falling in a line, one crashing into the next.

            I still cry, but not as much. The tears begin to slow. I hear a knock on my door. My mom enters. “Kara, honey, are you ok?” She knows. She always knows. No matter how hard I try to cry quietly. The tears come again. She holds me in her lap like a baby. She holds all 5’ 2” of me, even though I am sure it hurts her. I know I am too big to sit in her lap. But right now that does not matter. We both shed tears. I tell her about how I have to remember. She tells me “Kara, I do not think Mr. Rick would want you to cry every year. He would want you to be happy.” I find it odd it takes the broken to comfort the broken. Mommy is the only one who knows perfectly how.

January 16^th, 2003

The sun shines brightly in Florida despite the mid-January date. The cool breeze refreshes the crowd as we all stand there in anticipation. I look at the launch pad then back at the people surrounding me. Friends of the STS-107 crew stand packed like sardines on the bleachers. My dad stands there ready with his camcorder. My mom says prayers for the safety of the crew under her breath. Lauren and I stand goggle-eyed in awe of shuttle Columbia. I have seen retired spacecraft, such as a Saturn shuttle, at Johnson Space Center in Clear Lake, TX near my house, but nothing like this. A big black digital clock with red numbers stands in front of the bleachers to inform the crowd of lift-off.

            A man begins speaking to us through a megaphone: “Shuttle Columbia will launch soon, but remember, don’t watch the entire launch through a camcorder. It is breathtaking and can only be completely enjoyed with the naked eye.” I look at my dad hoping he will not make the mistake this kind man just mentioned.

            After some short delays, the man came back on the megaphone and began the countdown: “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-LIFTOFF!” The warmed-up engines light and launch STS-107 into the air. The noise deafens the crowd’s ears. I follow the shuttle with my eyes while covering my ears, craning my neck back to take in the sight as long as my 10-year-old eyes can. In an instant, the crew and Mr. Rick left the atmosphere in the shuttle.

I look at my father and he is still looking through the camcorder lens. He starts to kick himself for doing exactly what the man told us not to. Typical Gault move. Sometimes we learn best by making the exact mistakes someone told us not to.

January 17^th-18^th, 2003

             After the launch, my family and I stayed with the Husband family briefly, and then began the trek from Coco Beach, Florida to Universal Studios in Orlando. As exhilarating as this vacation seemed at the time, I cannot and do not look back at it often. Universal Studios and the roller coasters were amazing, but it was overshadowed by sad events to come.

           

Present—2012

After talking to me for a while or reading some of my short coming-of-age blogs, you will begin to notice I had a wonderful childhood. My family had no money, but we always had just enough. No large events happened to sully my short life. I went to school, had friends, and a wonderful sister, a loving mom, and a hard-working dad. While I grew up in small ways, like by catching my first fish, learning to juggle gymnastics and school, and entering public school, I can’t say that any of these left a large, marked, definitive impact on my personality. They all combined to form me, but none of them completely shaped me.

            After February 1, 2003 I cannot say I ever went back to being a carefree child. Not solely because of February 1^st and the events that unfolded, but also because of the year that followed. While the beginning of this full coming-of-age story is sad, it does end happy. A life continues to be celebrated and reaches out to impact others in a positive way.

February 1, 2003

            I sit in front of the television anxiously awaiting the birthday calls from my grandparents. My sister and I sit mesmerized, enjoying Saturday morning cartoons just like any other Saturday. Who could resist One Saturday Morning on ABC? I sit at my white “Little Tikes” table in a small gray-blue chair eating a bowl full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

My dad was working that Saturday and my mom was just picking up her Christmas present from Oklahoma City, where my grandma lives. My anticipation builds with each hour. When will they be home so we can start celebrating my 11^th birthday?, I think.

            Suddenly the phone rings.  As birthday girl, I allow my sister the luxury of answering the call. I briefly look away from the television set to look at Lauren’s face. Her brow wrinkles. The voice on the other end sounds like a man’s voice. I wonder who it is. Lauren snatches the remote and starts flipping through the channels.

            “What are you doing!?!” I exclaim.

            “Where are the news channels? Kara, we need to see this. Something’s wrong with Columbia.”

            Nothing can be wrong with Columbia. It’s Mr. Rick. He will be ok. His family needs him, so God won’t take him yet.

            The first news channel Lauren found is CNN. I stop eating. I just stare. I cannot believe my eyes. I do not understand. My freshly eleven-year-old brain cannot comprehend what I see. Lauren begins to choke down sobs. I do not hear what the television announcer says, all I see is Space Shuttle Columbia in flames. I go over and sit by my sister on the burgundy ottoman. I put my arm around her and say, “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.” I just know something like this cannot happen to the Husband’s. My mind cannot fathom it.

            Lauren calls my dad, still choking down sobs. He turns the radio on at work. He tells Lauren he is coming home immediately. Thirty minutes pass and he walks in the door.

            “Everything’s ok, right Daddy?”

            “No one can survive that, Kara. Mr. Rick is dead.”

            His face begins to contort into a weird shape. He almost looks angry, but he is not. Later in life, I realize he is trying not to cry. The only time I ever saw my father cry is at Mr. Rick’s funeral.

I cannot really say what happens the rest of the day. Everything becomes a blur. I only have snippets. I remember our close friends that called, the Myskowski’s, coming over. Their mom tries to comfort us since my mom has not yet arrived. I do not cry in front of them. Only babies cry, I think. My mom arrives later. People leave. Things quit down. Then nothing.

February 2, 2003

            Reporters swarm outside of the Husband’s house. We slowly pull up. NASA, after the disaster, quickly flew the crew’s families back home to Clear Lake for safety—at times the media can be brutal and prying. Everyone wants to interview Mrs. Husband, but she just wants to be alone.

            We ring the doorbell and a fellow astronaut of Mr. Rick opens the door. In case of tragedies, such as Columbia, astronauts about to be on a mission assign an astronaut friend to take care of their family. One such man opens the door for us.

            Lauren and I go find Laura and Matthew. We try to distract them or think of comforting words to say. Nothing comes to mind. Soon, we resort to the swing-set in the backyard. 13-year-old Laura looks at the sky and says:

            “I just feel like he’s still up there on his mission, floating around in space.”

            I become overcome with sadness for them. I try to hold back my emotion. Tears trickle down my small face. Lauren reprimands me for crying. We should support them, not cry. Laura hugs me and says, “It’s ok. I know it’s because you are sad for us.” My feeble tears show all I know how to express.

Present—2012

Looking back, I cannot remember any other details. It is like I blacked out. My brain shut off and nothing worked anymore. I did not cry about it in front of anyone. I kept to myself and only expressed my grief when alone. I know I cried in my room, but I have no implicit memory of it.

This past birthday marked 9 years since Mr. Rick’s passing. Almost every birthday Ms. Husband calls to wish me happy birthday and express regret that Mr. Rick died that day. We exchange condolences and silently remember.

I remember, but I do not cry every birthday. Age taught me that lives do end abruptly and unexpectedly, but instead of always mourning, I should rejoice in the wonderful life he lived. Mr. Rick is in heaven now. His life is a wonderful memory and his death is a trial, but one that continues to strengthen others.

Ms. Husband, now Mrs. Thompson is a speaker at Christian Women’s conventions and gatherings, and is wonderful at grief counseling. She assists in widow ministries at our church, Sagemont Church, in Houston. I would never wish for Mr. Rick to die again, but God has used a sad event to benefit others. Mrs. Thompson’s testimony speaks to many widows and brings new meaning to life.

Through Mr. Rick’s passing, personally, I realized life is short and precious. Things happen unexpectedly—life happens. Rejoice in the days you have. Rejoice in the good times and rejoice in the bad, for one does not exist without the other. Coming-of-age stories shape us. Mr. Rick’s passing opened my eyes to the world, but also became the catalyst for me to become the woman I am today. I will always remember. I will always miss him. I will always know that little girl is part of who I am today. 

"You're Too Tall"

"Mommy, Wendy acts like I am too tall to do gymnastics. She always talks about how the short girls are so great at it."

My mom looked incredulous. Wendy was my not-so-nice gymnastics coach. She rarely gave compliments, often gave corrections, and always showed favoritism. As the tallest girl in Level 3, I could feel it. She did not like me. She quickly moved girls up that did not work as hard as I did just because they were shorter. I worked the hardest, complained the least, and gained the least recognition.

With my distaste for my current gym growing, my mom set out to find a new one. A new gym named Acrofit was being built not too far from my house in Kemah, Texas. Soon, I was enrolled and beginning classes there.

I started at Acrofit in my current Level, Level 3. Within weeks they had moved me to Level 4--the level in gymnastics where you started to compete. I became ecstatic. Going from a gym that ignored me to one that embraced me felt good.

My first gymnastics meet quickly approached. It was called the Oni's Invitational. Just thinking about it made me want to vomit. Being in public on show made me nervous. Coach Tracy and Coach Perla were encouraging as ever. They believed in me.

The day came and I put on my competition leotard. It was a dark blue and green tie-dye design. It fit perfectly. I sat with nervousness before each event. Floor was my worst that day. I shook during every pivot and flip with nervousness. Finally, it was over, but the exhilaration still hung in the air. I felt like I conquered something. It was as if the world stopped and there was just me and each event I tackled. On bars I only saw the world spinning with each turn. On the beam, I only saw my toes grip the long, leather-bound elevated piece of wood. On the floor, the world spun by with each subsequent flip. In short, I felt thrilled, breathless--hooked.

I continued in gymnastics until I reached Level 6. It started to take over my life with 12 hours of practice a week. I knew it was time to move on. I still miss it and never found a sport good enough to replace it. I dabbled here and there in sports such as track and tennis, but it never felt the same. Sometimes I still dream about my old routines and the same feeling returns. I have never felt as exhilarated as I did during a gymnastics routine. That part of me has never been reawakened. It's a part that belongs in the past--something that only lives in memories.

Moving Day: Coming to TCU

My eyes became as big as saucers, my heart beat fast, and my legs hurried up the steps in anticipation. I enter the building pulling a cart with all my belongings in it behind me. Then it hit me, Milton is my new home. I am going away to college and I am living in a dorm. I now live in a 14' x 12' room and share it with another person I have never met before!

I took a deep breath. I rest my hand on the door handle to room 139. The first floor. That may prove convenient, I thought.  What if my roommate is strange? Why did I go potluck? I should have gone to a college where I actually knew someone! Too late now. I open the door. There she is. She has short brown hair, a big welcoming smile, and an outgoing personality. Maybe this will work.

The day flew by filled with many trips to Walmart, trips to the car, organizing, realizing how unprepared I was to live on my own, and uneasy feelings. As my parents car drove away, I began to reflect. I am in a town I do not know my way around, I do not know anyone but a handful of people, and tonight I have to share a room with a complete stranger! Why did I not go to school in Houston? I began to take in the sight of my room. I have to live here for the next 8 months of my life.

Due to my shy nature, I stayed in my room that night. My roommate ended up staying with her parents in their hotel room. They were not ready to part ways yet. I started to cry. The stress of the day and now staying by myself in a foreign place took its toll. I called my mom. "Kara, you need to tell the RA that you are sleeping alone tonight. It's not safe!" There was no way I was going to act like a baby and tell my RA I needed supervision. I just gained independence, I do not want it back anytime soon. My mother comforted me until she went to bed.

Then I decided to call my best friend from back home. We laughed at my circumstances. "This would only happen to me! Of course my roommate doesn't even stay the night the first night and I know no one else!" I laughed the rest of the night away and no longer worried about not make friends. I would have to push myself. Putting myself out there was always a struggle of mine, but I must make friends.

In the coming weeks, my roommate met many people and her outgoing personality made it easier for me to make friends as well. She proved a good roommate and we complemented each other's personalities. I pushed through rush week and the first week of school and managed to make friends. Without the support base of my family nearby, it proved difficult to get out there, but when I did, I found myself. Just Kara. I became myself through moving out, meeting new people, and making my own decisions. This was the beginning of my autonomous self.

Conversation Partner: Meeting #6

This past Thursday WeiRan and I met for the last time. His face shone with excitement and happiness more than usual. As usual, I inquired after his week. Nothing out of the norm happened in his life that week. He played video games, stayed up late, and avoided homework. Then why did WeiRan appear so excited?

I soon came to find WeiRan's excitement came from his anticipation of summer. He cannot wait to go home and see his friends. He hates school and is excited about no longer having to do homework. However, WeiRan has one worry: his last test in the foreign exchange student program. WeiRan struggles with English. If he passes the class, he can begin school at TCU, if he does not then he must repeat the course until he passes.

Next, WeiRan asked me how many hours a day I study for classes. I told him between 4-6 hours at least. His jaw dropped and he said "So if I go to school at TCU I must study that much." I explained that I have goals and work really hard so I can get into graduate school. WeiRan did not like the idea that classes at TCU are hard. WeiRan admitted that he would rather enjoy the freedoms of college without the work. Wouldn't we all? But college is the precursor to the real world, so hard work is necessary.

After telling WeiRan that college is hard, I think he strongly considered not going. I still cannot understand why he is strongly opposed to school and learning. Maybe I would feel the same way if I attended school in China and struggled to learn the language.

Then, WeiRan asked me for television show recommendations. He wants to watch tv shows to assist him in learning English. WeiRan believes listening to the dialogue will help him in his own personal dialogue in English. I showed him Hulu and mentioned tv shows such as The Office, How I Met Your Mother, and New Girl. He mentioned liking action shows, so I referenced Bones. I think he will really enjoy the comedy and mystery aspect of Bones.

Soon, our time was up. I said my last goodbye to WeiRan. I wished him luck with his final exam and said I hoped to see him next semester. He left with a smile and wished me the same. I really enjoyed getting to know him and his culture. Talking to WeiRan always proved to be interesting.

Hello, Public School

I looked around the big lunch room, the long never-ending hallways, the dark blue, silver, and white tile. All seemed alien to me. It had been four years since I stepped into a school as a potential student (except for the brief stint in 3rd grade). The blatant difference between this school and my previous school was population.

For the previous four years I had been homeschooled. It was just Lauren, my sister, and I. My mom taught us and sometimes my dad. I loved being homeschooled. But, the time had come for change. In 2003, many events made it necessary for my sister and I to enter public school--specifically financial issues. My mom worked as a CPA for my dad's business now. No more stay-at-home-mom. My dad was just trying to keep his sub-sea drilling censor business alive. Before being homeschooled, we went to a private school, but we could not afford that option now.

This is why I stood here. This is why I stood here in this big, cold, school that had huge windows and kids running around in awkward polo and khaki uniforms. I didn't know how I felt about it. I felt scared, maybe, and just empty. I felt nothing. My best friend who I homeschooled with had moved to Alaska, for the first time I realized how financially unstable my families circumstances were, and other unhappy circumstances made 2003 an unenjoyable year. For now we will focus on the school aspect of that year.

I drew a deep breath as I entered the 6th grade hallway. I had my binder strap on one shoulder and my lunchbox strap on the other. I fumbled with my schedule. I strained to see the last names of teachers printed on white laminated paper stuck to the top of the blue cement bricks. This paper signaled the entrance of the small branching hallways that held the classrooms.

I scowled at my "regular" classes schedule. The Texas School Board did not think my homeschooling education entitled me to "advanced" classes, even though test results said otherwise (can you tell I haven't exactly let this go?). These classes bored me.

The fiery, loud, and outgoing girl changed into a quiet, subdued individual. I learned to stay quiet in class, work hard, and keep ideas to myself. Reading became my favorite class because I could get lost in books. I could forget that year when I read. I became the protagonist in stories when I read. I empathized with their losses and rejoiced with their gains. I loved reading.

I had some friends. The outgoing people who chose to reach out to me became my friends. But I mostly focused on school. My thought process was I must do well in school in intermediate school to do well in high school and get a scholarship so I can go to college. With my families financial circumstances, college became only a hope, not a certainty. I became determined.

Being thrown into public school taught me how to adapt. My financial circumstances and other humbling experiences helped me empathize with other people. This is when I decided I wanted to be a psychologist. I wanted to help people who felt just as alone as me.

BFBU: Best Friend Break-ups

I sat in the passenger seat of the car holding the brown-paper bag. I did not dare look at its contents until I was safely off the tennis court and in the car. Now I looked into the bag. My vision began to blur and my eyes swim. Under some of my forgotten night clothes laid my homecoming mum. All these items had been left at my best friend Katie's house.

"Are you ok, Kara" my mom asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine."

Once safely inside, I ran to my room and threw myself on my bed. The sobs would not hold themselves inside any longer. I could not hold myself together anymore. I buried my face in the pillows and let out all the sadness, anger, feelings of injustice, betrayal, and hurt. How could Katie stop being my friend? We were inseparable. We played tennis together, had the same private instructor, had sleepovers almost every weekend--we did everything together. As a shy individual, I really only needed Katie. I loved having one best friend and some acquaintances.

The break-up began to show its cracks when Katie's boyfriend of four months wanted more and more of her time. It started in about January of our freshman year. The distancing, ignoring, and irritation at my growing distaste for the boyfriend she "loved." She would ignore me at assemblies and sit with Josh. She hung out with him on the weekends. She walked with him in the hallways. Every second he was there. I felt suffocated. Sometimes I just wanted to scream and say "I want to hangout with my best friend without you there!"

I began to voice my distasteful opinions about him. Bad idea. Katie told Josh everything I thought about him. Wasn't I supposed to be able to trust my best friend?

By May, the break was complete. That's why after my private tennis lesson and at the beginning of hers, Katie gave me back my stuff. She did not want to see me again. My heart broke.

Our freshman class was being split in half because the high school was having half of the inhabitants be redistricted to the new high school. This meant Josh was leaving. The small hope I had of Katie and I becoming friends again vanished when I found out she received permission to transfer to the new high school. She transferred to be with Josh. She left me completely to be with him. She convinced the district that it would be bad for her "emotional and psychological health" to be separated from him. Pathetic. That's what I thought it was, pathetic.

My fear of abandonment and losing people I cared about resurfaced. After losing people when I turned eleven I struggled with that. Losing Katie made me realize "you can't put all your eggs in one basket," as my mom says. I learned to try to put aside my shyness and make many friends.

Since then, Katie and I have reconciled. We rarely talk since high school, but are still on good terms. Her and Josh broke up two months into going to the same school. We both learned a lot through those experiences. No matter how painful, she taught me a valuable lesson.

About A Boy

I sat there eating my lunch quietly. I just stared. He had the biggest blue eyes I ever saw. He was tall and lanky. I had seen him around school a lot and he went to my new church. At 13, he was my first big crush. In middle school, I was quiet and reserved. After the shock of being transferred from homeschooling to public school in 6th grade, I did not talk much. I did not talk to boys. I barely talked to girls. It is a miracle I had friends. My few friends came from being neighbors with half of them.

In the spring of 8th grade, adolescence bloomed and I started to take notice of this boy. We will say his name is Roger. I remember sitting at the long, dark blue and gray flecked lunch table and thinking "I'm gonna date that boy." Strange, I know. Blame it on the awkward phase.

Fast forward four years later. It is 2010 and we are both seniors in high school. Roger and I ended up hanging out and "dating" at the beginning of 9th grade for 3 months. Then in the spring of 9th grade for 2 months. Then the spring of 10th grade for 1 month. We went through phases of having crushes on each other, to hating each other, to finally being best friends. If you asked me to explain how this happened I would not be able to tell you. Roger and I just somehow always ended up being a part of each others' lives.

Being best friends with Roger was great. He is still one of the few people that knows me like the back of their hand. He could be exasperating at times, but ultimately he was my best friend. I could be mad at him, but no one else was allowed to.

Oblivion is something I live in often when it comes to the opposite gender. Throughout Junior and Senior year of high school people told me Roger liked me. I blew off their remarks. I had a long-term boyfriend, who was an idiot, but I was too googly-eyed to notice.

Spring semester of Senior year I finally broke up with my silly boyfriend of 14 months. The first person I turned to was Roger. A lot of other things began to fall a part in my life at the same time. Roger broke up with his girlfriend two weeks later. We began to hang out frequently. Our parents were close and we just clicked. It was easy being around Roger. I could tell him anything.

Some nights we just sat by a lake close by and talked. We talked about college, hopes, dreams, aspirations, beliefs. I felt safe with Roger. Roger began to disclose his feelings for me. I reciprocated. I was really happy that summer. But practical Kara knew I could not go into college with a fresh relationship. I broke it off at the end of the summer. Maybe it was cold. I just thought it was best for both of us. I knew he had to find himself and I had to find myself.

I went through a brief, unstable relationship at the beginning of college. When Roger found out I think it really hurt him. I did not mean to, but I was naive. I became defensive. It wasn't like he went to college and made the best choices. I still don't think he knows how hearing about his college experiences affected me. He changed. I changed.

Roger now has been dating a girl for 1 1/2 years. But at breaks when we hang out, the same feelings resurface. After he re-confessed his love for me this past summer despite still being in a relationship, I knew something had to change. I could not sleep with a clean conscious if I knew just by contacting my best friend I could be hurting another woman.

I learned I had to let go of something I love. We weren't broken, he didn't do anything mean to me, we just changed. He moved on. I had to let him go. Sometimes I think about calling him. Sometimes I want to text him about funny things or struggles of mine. I can't. He's not available. He's not there. Sometimes I wonder if they broke up if we would start talking again. If we'd become friends and maybe more. I suppress these thoughts because you can't think like that. It is selfish that I wish him unhappiness just so I can have my best friend back. It won't ever be the same. Learning to let go for someone else's happiness is hard. I still struggle with not saying I like him just so I can have him back. Deep down I know he would drop everything to be with me. But that is wrong. I don't deserve him. I had my chance.

I miss him a lot. Things will never be the same between him and I. Honestly, I do not know when I will even see him again. We're growing up and changing, but we will always have that summer.