I was fourteen (with, might I add, braces and a highly unfortunate middle part) and sitting in the common room of my high school when I first heard him. The lyrics of “One Time” blasted as a hundred girls in plaid skirts and polos squealed and jumped around. The song was immediately catchy and I grew increasingly fascinated with the way everyone seemed so infatuated. I didn’t even know what this person looked like, but I knew I needed to know more.

Upon my Google search after school that day, I was met with the image of my idea of an angel. Baby-faced and with a mop of brown hair nearly covering his eyes, Justin Bieber was a sight to be seen for my young eyes. That was all it took.

I religiously listened to his songs as they were released, obsessed with his smooth vocals and the way he delivered them in white t-shirts and chain necklaces and beanies. I tracked his every move in Tiger Beat and POPSTAR! (I’m not that enthused by it anymore, it’s just the way the magazine is spelled). I daydreamed on the school bus about the things we would do once we were dating, including but not limited to dodging hordes of paparazzi to sneak into Starbucks and Forever 21. It would be hard being the target of rumors, because he would want to keep our special relationship private, but he would tell me I was worth it.

My friends and I, in neon Sugar Lips tank tops and matching floral skirts and braids, cheered along at Madison Square Garden as he hung from a heart overhead and sang “Favorite Girl”, entranced by it all and hopelessly devoted to all that he was. We swooned when he brought a lucky girl onstage and longingly gaped, wishing more than anything it was us up there instead.

I even was blessed and fortunate enough to meet him briefly on one occasion. We posed for a heinous picture in which I am at least three inches taller than him and during which we exchanged no more than three words, but somehow it only caused my love for him to grow deeper.

But, as do all great things, the world’s love (note: not my love) for Justin Bieber began to diminish. He landed less headlines mentioning his heartthrob status and more involving his partying, bratty behavior, and DUI. Some saw it as immature and the inevitable antics of a spoiled teen pop star; I merely saw it as a necessary shedding of his innocent façade that was only paving the way for better things.

There were some bumps in the road that was our relationship. On several occasions did I question if we were even meant to be together considering the fact that our love was slightly one-sided and he had given me zero signs he wanted anything to do with me. But these fears were halted every time I heard his voice or saw him flash a smile on the cover of another magazine or website.

Now, as he releases his new album and the world begins to love him again, I proudly watch him make his comeback, knowing that I never gave up faith in him. His platinum blonde hair is a little unbecoming and pants that expose the entirety of his undergarments are not typically the most attractive look. Also, the tattoos that cover a large portion of his body are not the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen. But all it would take is for him to sing one rendition of “Sorry” and I would be the one begging forgiveness.