Right above my desk in my room is a huge picture of my boyfriend and I. It’s a vibrant canvas, immortalizing our night at homecoming together.

A bit creepy for a girl of 18 who’s been in a relationship for 9 months, I know. But I didn’t ask for this. It was a gift, given to me by a friend who wanted to be kind.

They, actually, were a gift. He gave me two.

When I saw them, I had the initial thought of “what am I going to do with these?” How do you give your boyfriend a huge, creepy photo of the two of you? I mean, what if we break up? I’d hate to throw them away; they’re really nice. Even my mother said it was a lot of pressure for an 18-year-old girl.

I couldn’t keep the both of them (that was too creepy). Instead, one day nowhere near our anniversary or Christmas or birthday or any other semi more appropriate time to give such a gift, I sat with him in my car and said, “Derian. We have to get married.”

Because my boyfriend is just that cool, he didn’t look at me weird or get scared: he calmly asked why.

That’s when I awkwardly twisted my body and heaved the 20x16 out from the back seat.

And because my boyfriend is once again just that cool, he laughed heartily and admired the photo with a smile.

So now he has a huge picture of us above his piano, and I have one above my desk, and I guess if we break up we can just stab them or burn them or donate them or something, and everything is fine.

But recently I’ve been asking myself if it is.

Whenever I’m bored with homework, I look up. Whenever I’m antsy and unfocused, I look up. Whenever I need inspiration, I look up. Even now as I write this, I look up. But all I get from that is the two of us and how I wish it were the two us instead of just the one of me here right now.

Missing him isn’t a bad thing, perhaps, except that I literally just saw him at school 6 hours ago and waited 30 minutes for him to finish a test after school just so I could say goodbye to him one last time and get one last kiss until tomorrow. And I hate waiting. I absolutely do. But for some reason, I find myself willing to wait an extraordinary amount of time for him, only him. On nights where he accidently falls asleep before texting me goodnight, I safety pin heavy eyelids up to stay awake just to see if maybe he’s not asleep yet.

My relationship has changed me. It’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, and it’s been full of lessons, blessings, happiness, friendship, and love. But I wonder if a girl who was starved of romantic love for 17 years is now being consumed by it. My friends mention how Derian is all I talk about, and I can feel it too. Derian is always somewhere bubbling under the surface of my thoughts, and he pops up even in the most irrelevant of conversations. Oh, you went to the movies yesterday? Derian and I went last week. You’re in anatomy? Derian really wanted to take that class. He’s so fascinated with the human body and how it works. You’re eating an apple? Derian ate an apple today too!

In general, I feel less motivated, less disciplined: my cell phone battery dies just a little bit faster, I stay in bed just a few minutes longer, my homework gets done just a little bit later. I used to exercise very intensely and eat very strictly. Recently, I’ve laid off my “rabbit food" and I jog when I should sprint. I just don’t feel the need to push myself to the full potential of my past. I’ve wondered if my indifference on less muscle and more jiggle on my body comes from a deeper self-love or the discovery of his love.

Is it possible that even me, a girl who a year ago had never been kissed and was content if she was never kissed, is prone to house-wife-disease: waiting at the door like a dog for your husband to get home from work. I don’t know, but I am trying not to feel hurt that he hasn’t texted me in 3 hours because I know that he is working towards his future as I should be. And I’m trying to ignore the fact that the girl in the canvas above is a lot prettier than the one at the desk in glasses and pajama pants. She’s also smiling a lot more than the one typing this when she should be typing her essay for English.

Maybe it’s because of senioritis or maybe it’s just growing pains or maybe it’s because I’ve been eating too much pizza lately.

Or maybe my lack of motivation really is all his fault. He’s the one that turned a lion into a smitten kitten who desires attention all the time. He’s the dealer that has given me overdoses of happiness. He’s the musician who played all the right notes that finally made me listen. It’s his fault that when I saw him I silenced my roar because I was entranced by his.

But now that I have taken it in, I suppose that the only thing stopping me from getting back up and roaring alongside him is myself.