In kindergarten, I thought love was the cute boy in my class whom I avoided eye contact with at all costs. The one whom behind behind closed doors I called "hubba hubba".
In second grade, I thought love was my best friend's goofy twin. The one who forced me to play toy tractors with him. In fourth grade, I thought love was my teammate in the county's rec soccer league. The one who broke my premature heart a few times too many. In my freshman year, I thought love was the class clown who picked on me in Algebra. The one who kissed me first. In my senior summer, I realized love was the one who came out of nowhere. The one I call my first love. Because before him, I never really knew what love truly was.
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Ariel Wolfeself-proclaimed writersomewhat avid reader
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