Love can be a strange experience, especially when you’re still young and harvesting unrealistic expectations about life. Most people condemn it as a waste of time, while others don’t believe in it and in my case I simply think it’s terrifying. My first real crush, let’s call him the flower boy, will always be a reminder of how horrific it can be to fall out of love. All the stars I saw in his eyes, and everything that I liked in him seemed to shrivel and die with time. His contagious smile, however, still makes me feel both joy and nostalgia. But here is the truth about nostalgia; you mostly feel it for who you could have been, for what you could have done and rarely for the past itself.
The flower boy was someone I had seen around many times but that I never bothered to look at twice before transferring to the same high school. He was tall and svelte, with a cute foam of dark brown hair, and piercing caramel colored eyes. Truth be told, he’s not that eye catching but still he’s moderately attractive. He was that fun kid, always ready for a laugh or to crack a dirty joke, and that I’ve never heard breathe a bad word about anyone.
I quickly learned more about him by asking classmates and stalking him on Facebook. He was born on the 3rd of October 1998, his father was a dentist, and he lived near me; three streets away to be more precise. His house stood out from the rest in an odd way. It looked gloomy because the paint had decayed and faded badly. The lawn’s grass was