High school love is trivial and pathetic, and all the things everyone always said it would be. It’s beautiful and harmonious, and places butterflies in gaps you don’t want to feel them. But high school love is difficult and complicated, and it’s even worse when you’re 812 miles away.
I fell in love through a phone screen to a voice I had not seen in person for over a year. I was 17, attending a boarding school in a secluded tundra and had left all traces of home behind — until one day, by all fate, he showed up in a dream. It was a rather weird dream, that type that feels like you’re playing an augmented reality game, or the Sims. But at the same time, while you’re completely aware it’s a dream, it isn’t.
We were 23, graduating college and ready to buy an apartment together, ring set on my finger. We both attended who-knows-what university in god-knows-where town, and had just finished our fancy-schmancy-stuff program. Our parents were in the audience, flush with tears, as we embraced with new diplomas in hand.
We drove away for the night, and awoke at 32. Our kids were downstairs, bustling excitement for the first day of school — second grade, I believe — and we gently kissed as he whisked through the door to work. The dream continued as an 8-hour version of a 60-year life, and ended with a gentle greeting to death. (In other words, my alarm clock.)
My mother has always been very spiritual growing up, and it’s a common lore in our family to believe she possess “psychic powers”—not in the sense that she can move things with her mind, but rather that she is just connected to the universe in a way that most long to be. So, when I told her about this dream, she explained to me that there was definitely a greater meaning behind it.
Naturally, after waking up, I shook it off and headed to class.
4:32 p.m. was when he messaged me. It was something along the lines of “Montse! How are ya?” or “Long time no see!” But it really felt like the last time we stopped talking was yesterday. We were good friends in high school when I lived at home, but never carried our friendship past my moving. I had intentionally made the effort to leave most people from home in my past. But, after that dream, it felt like God was knocking me upside the head to say, “Don’t be stupid! Answer him!”
One message turned into five, into 30-minute phone calls, into video-chats that lasted all night, into future plans for the summer, into butterflies in the gaps between my ribcage. It was smooth, it was easy and it felt right. But I knew I wasn’t the only one.
They had been dating for six months at this point, and I never really knew her — which I’m thankful for now. We were both in love with the same person, but she didn't even know I was relevant to his life. She was a year below me, and carried herself pretty much under the radar. I never really heard much about her aside from the things he would tell me. It wasn’t my business to know and as much as I wanted to hear him complain about her, that wasn’t my place.
It happened quickly and it happened passionately, but by the end of that summer, we were gripping each other in emotion as we both prepared to leave our suburban nirvana and venture off in separate ways to finish what we started. He was heading off to college, and I was back to boarding school. It was just like leaving home the year prior, but with a heart heavy with love and appreciation. Nothing about us ever felt wrong. And even a year and a half later, it still rings true.
As much as I want to say that I’m sorry for playing a role in their break-up, or for even wanting them to break up in the first place, I really can’t. I feel guilty about it, and to this day it stays in the back of my mind. But I can’t be sorry for falling in love. I do not regret a single thing from that summer, because every little detail fell into place perfectly. I was blessed with love, a feeling I now embrace daily.
