IвЂ™m glad IвЂ™ve fucked up once too often and been too much and too little and too interested and too passive. So IвЂ™m glad youвЂ™re not my first love, and IвЂ™m glad youвЂ™re not my second. Maybe weвЂ™ve trained ourselves to succeed at perfect moments. Because thereвЂ™s an existing precedent, but this is somehow better. It can still be just as perfect in its quietly unexpected way, but it can also be better than each of the last perfect moments. Having something to compare with means a perfect moment isnвЂ™t perfect just because itвЂ™s a вЂfirstвЂ™. Perfect instants that happen and then swiftly fade away.Д«ut you see, having something to compare with makes some moments feel more perfect. To know that our perfect moments are unlikely to be anything more than exactly that. To know that weвЂ™re not perfect human and weвЂ™ve both made mistakes and are probably going to make more. To be able to predict the inevitable complications, the quiet dissatisfaction, the startling discontent. To know that вЂfirstsвЂ™ donвЂ™t necessarily end up meaning a thing.

ItвЂ™s another thing to know that these things happen, sometimes. ItвЂ™s one thing to look over a coffee table at a pair of unusually focused blue eyes and read into that instant, decide that your shared amusement and engagement and obvious mutual attraction is a sign of some or other meaningful connection. ItвЂ™s one thing to admit a dark and personal anecdote from your past that youвЂ™ve never said out loud and were certain you never would, and then decide that your ability to share your innermost secrets makes this moment, this strange boy, somehow unique. ItвЂ™s one thing to look over at a boy on a long distance bus and find out heвЂ™s read the obscure books you have and decide that that means something profound. WeвЂ™ve done all of this.Д«ut hereвЂ™s the thing: when thereвЂ™s something to compare with, the memory of that something makes each of our perfect moment all the more special.

WeвЂ™ve had kisses and sex and lazy days and dinners and parties with other people. I guess we could feel that itвЂ™s all been done before, several times. You are not the first person IвЂ™ve written about.ДЄnd I guess that could make us less special. You are not the first person IвЂ™ve stayed up sharing secrets with until four in the morning. Not the first to construct elaborate meals from the leftovers in the fridge with me after a long night out. Not the first to take me out to breakfast after I stayed over at your house for the first time. You are not the first person IвЂ™ve introduced to my family or my friends. You cannot claim to be the first person to see me with no make up on for an entire day, lounging about in an oversized T-shirt and watching bad films on your couch. Not the first to contract my name into a one syllable nickname. Not the first to gaze at me, adoringly, your head cocked to one side. You are not the first person IвЂ™ve woken up next to and smiled. You were not the first person to fuck me. You were not the first person to hold my hand or stroke my hair. Your lips were not there during my first kiss.

My first love 2015