She was beautiful. She was beautiful in the way that only a 12-year-old boy could understand. Cheap lip gloss. White teeth. Soft hands. A laugh that could lighten up a room. Faint freckles that most people didn’t notice. But I noticed them.

She wrote me a note. As a matter of fact, she was the first girl to ever write me a note. I no longer have it. I don’t even remember what it said. I do remember though that she wrote it on reddish pink notebook paper. Almost magenta like. I remember her penmanship. I remember the way she drew her hearts. It’s funny how sometimes we can only remember the most trivial things like the color of a note, but not the important words that were contained within.

The first time we kissed I was elated. I felt like I never wanted to kiss another girl again. I remember the taste of her lip gloss. I remember the little giggle she let out after as she ran to her dad’s blue Dodge Dakota pickup. I remember feeling so nervous thinking he may have seen us. I remember feeling so excited knowing that I would kiss her again the next day.

Our first dance I was sweating my ass off out of nervousness. I was 13, maybe 14. It was a Hawaiian theme. She looked beautiful. We danced slow. I felt like we were holding each other close close, but when I think about it you could probably fit a semi-truck between us. I never had a problem dancing with other people.

Times change. People change. We mature. We grow apart. We find new people to fill the holes of people we lose.

The last time I kissed her I was 19 years old. It was raining. I told her I would always love her. She told me she loved me too. We never spoke of our confession or the kiss again after that night.

The last time we danced was January 10, 2009. I was 21 years old. I know that because it was my wedding day. We laughed and talked about things I can’t remember. I cannot be certain what she was thinking. However, I know in my mind I felt a moment of sadness. I felt while a new chapter had just been started in my life, another chapter was being closed, this time for good.

Her messages to me always made me feel special. She spoke of missing me. We talked about how we wished we were living closer to one another. She would reach out to me in times of need. I would do the same to her. She became more than a teenage love story from the past. She became a friend. She became the friend you confide in. The friend you knew you could trust in a time of need.

We didn’t always keep in touch like I wanted to. Sometimes I would message her, and it would take days for her to get back to me. Sometimes I wouldn’t always get back to her right away either. It wasn’t intentional or malicious. It’s just how it was.

Her obituary said she had a laugh you could pick out in a crowd. They were right.

I miss her. A part of me will always love her.