2011.
The first boy I ever loved had dimples in both cheeks, a passion for basketball, and a smile that could melt the heart of the most strict teacher in school. In elementary school, we were friends, back when we were unaware of the anxiety of insecurity. He was kinder than most boys at that time. He had perfect melanin skin that glimmered in the sunlight at recess, and I could distinguish his handwriting from everyone else’s in the class because it wasn’t the most legible, but if he ever wrote me a letter, I would cherish every word that he wrote. As we grew into adolescence, I watched him closely, admiring how his personality evolved. Eventually, his growing assurance in himself guided me along the path from friendship into affection. It was an exciting experience, navigating a first love and noticing the beauty within them. In the seventh grade, I told my two closest friends that I liked him.
One afternoon, I approached the choir classroom door when my friends abruptly stopped me. I watched as the curve of their grins grew wider. They began to tell me the recent revelation they heard straight from the boy in question. The boy I loved told them that he liked me and desired a relationship. I remember how this news caused a surge of validation to spread throughout my being. I was a viable candidate to someone I cared for, and that felt life-changing. My friends ushered me into the classroom to experience my first public embarrassment. The boy I loved stared at me with the most bewildered expression as I realized that my friends had lied, that he hadn’t expressed any affection toward me. I listened as my friends laughed at my heartbreak behind me.
At this moment, a seed was planted, one I’ve been uprooting since I have understood the inner workings of attraction. Mere minutes in time hold years of therapy hours, tears, and intentional affirmations, all because of a hope ingrained in someone seeing me as worthy to love.
2013.
The second boy I ever loved was a sweetheart masquerading as tough by bickering with our eighth grade History teacher. He was an acquaintance encountered through proximity. Though our contact was through a mutual friend, my best friend at the time, he never treated me as someone on the outskirts of conversations. He invited me in and listened to my words with follow-up questions. He was intrigued, and since he was the first guy I embraced after the discovery of romance, I misinterpreted his niceties. It had become no secret that I liked him, but it was something we never discussed. Maybe he hoped it would disappear, that my affection for him would fade with time.
Later that year, he expressed his feelings for my best friend. They attended the Winter formal as friends and emerged as a couple from that day forward. I never questioned his decision. In fact, it was logical to me. As her best friend, I observed how boys responded to her humor, her body, and her quick witted mind. She was the girl who commanded attention, yet boys could recognize my presence as her loyal friend but they couldn’t remember my name.
To save face and honor his unspoken decision, I spent my following high school years avoiding eye contact with him and dodging him in the hallways. Initially, I believed that I would spare him the need of connecting with me, but now I call it the pain of not being chosen.
2018.
The third boy I ever loved was a present from my past that soon became the personification of empty promises and inconsistency compressed in a hormonal body. I was a sophomore in college who remained unkissed and unpursued until I entered a Psychology course. He and I attended high school together, and when our professor asked us to pair up, I asked him if he remembered me. He said he didn’t.
He asked to spend some time with me that weekend. Although it seemed strange, I obliged because he was the only boy to ask. When he came, I was surprised at the ease of the conversation. As we reminisced on the years we spent on the outside looking into each other’s lives, he admitted that he remembered me. In fact, he said he had feelings for me, and those feelings never wavered. His confession transported me through my memories, rehashing moments where his eyes would meet mine. I wondered how I missed it. I know now how he studied me, how he observed my movements while people’s perception of me consumed my thoughts. The following weekend, we shared our first kiss, a milestone that I waited years to have. This kiss culminated a lifetime of unrequited crushes and solidified my dream of being desirable. No longer would I be the only girl of my friend group left wanting a relationship. Someone would finally grant me the attention that everyone around me has already received.
Before I could fully embrace our romance, it began to crumble. My mind was shrouded in confusion; some moments between us felt kismet, but the more I revealed of my heart, the more distant he became. His absence became so normalized that his presence was a foreign concept. During the lapses in communication and visits, I captured the scent of his cologne in an oversized hoodie. Anytime I needed a reminder, I could smell the hoodie to remember that someone chose me. It wasn’t easy to remember. His scent began to fade as my roommate’s boyfriend traveled across state lines to visit her and when new men expressed an interest in the friends surrounding me.
When his scent completely faded, I finally ended my “relationship” with a theatrical door slam. While I spent time gluing my shattered self-esteem back together, his post on social media stated: “My time, attention, and affection goes to one girl only.”
And I wasn’t that girl.
2022.
I celebrated the birth of six babies, engagement announcements, and news of new relationships. It was rewarding to witness women I love receive the beautiful titles of fiancé, wife, and mother. I reflected on initially learning of their significant others, meeting them for the first time and hearing them speak so highly of the women they pursued. These moments replay like films in my memory, and I am reminded that I am always a supporting character, a role that takes a significant toll.
As prevalent as this feeling is, nobody speaks about the girls left behind, the self proclaimed late bloomers searching for someone to love them as genuinely as their peers have been loved. The girls left behind can become the women of insecurity, those who ponder their importance in a world that prioritizes romantic relationships. It begins in the middle school classrooms, the high school hallways, and the college dorms. The feeling now persists in adult dating where we assume we know the outcome before an encounter happens. We are the ones who didn’t have options, first dates, DMs, or flowers. Sometimes the bare minimum arrives, and we accept it as enough.
Sometimes I struggle to remain present and congratulatory during the heartfelt moments that I actually yearn for the people in my life to enjoy. My desire is for singleness to be by choice, and not by circumstance. Not because men don’t consider me, and not because those who consider me change their minds about pursuing me.
I want to be chosen as I choose. I want my single status not to feel like an indictment on my identity as a woman. Through all my heartbreaks, I acknowledge that my worth has always been contingent on what people see when they look at me, and I’m desperately searching for the girl who existed before romance was ever pursued. I wonder who she was, and what was important to her. I wonder who she would’ve grown up to be before insecurity snatched her individuality. How do I bring her back?
How does a girl left behind become a woman who feels right on time?
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