I want to start off by apologising to you. In this blog post, I’m going to make a lot of excuses for some pretty inexcusable behaviour. To me, they are the things that shaped this awful behaviour, they are the logic behind my madness, but they are still excuses.
In high school, I walked to and from school with an ever-changing couple of friends (ever-changing as you fall out with certain people, make new friends, make up with old friends, but you still have to get to school). One of the perks of this set up was the gossip that cropped up whilst you walked and the constant dissection of our personal problems. On one of our walks home, my friends and I were absorbed in our usual over-analysis of our daily lives and we loitered in front of my house, that was until you walked past. And, you were so cute! Like, every-leading-man-in-a-high-school-based-teen-rom-com kinda cute.
We began to linger outside my front door every day after school just waiting for you to pass by and we’d giggle away at how hot you were. We often wondered if we could find out who you were because you went to the all-boys school in town (the uniform was a dead giveaway) and there had to be someone at our school that knew another boy there that knew who you were. These plans were never followed through though. Instead, I’d often inadvertently embarrass myself just as you’d walk past (typical me, to be honest); I’d try to show my friends my progress on my splits and get stuck or talk about how cute you were a little too loudly. Looking back, you were probably oblivious to how our little group acted.
Our crushes on you were harmless enough, but it’s time to brace yourself for the beginning of the weirdness. We talked about you so much that we could no longer refer to you as “the boy that walked past my house” so we gave you a name that we thought suited you – Cameron. I know, majorly cringey, and so far from your real name.
The weirdest part of this crush occurred at Valentine’s; I don’t know exactly who came up with the idea or when it first started, but I decided to write you a Valentine’s card and put my mobile number inside with hopes you’d text me. I took inspiration from my parent’s own meet-cute: my parents worked together at Interflora, my mum sent my dad a Valentine’s card after which he tracked her down and they started dating, and nine days ago they celebrated 25 years of marriage. It seemed like a safe bet, practically a sure thing.
Getting the letter to you would be no issue because my friends walked past your house on the rest of their journey home, I’d just jog by and post it through your letterbox. Attending an all-girls school and growing up on an endless stream of rom-coms, I was blind to how bizarre getting an anonymous Valentine’s card delivered to your house. My interaction with boys was basically non-existent so I had no idea what the normal procedure was when you fancied someone. When you have films like Angus, Thongs, and Perfect Snogging pushing the idea of “boy-stalking” time, sending a simple card doesn’t seem that much of an issue.
Much to my delight, you messaged me soon after. Rather predictably, or at least it is in retrospect, things didn’t get much further than a few texts. You were clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation and I was extremely embarrassed (especially given the enthusiasm of my friends in the plan and the go-ahead from my MUM!).
I still tell this embarrassing story to many a person (probably too many) and laughter erupts consistently every time whilst I turn a shade of red that would make a tomato jealous. I’d promise you I’ve learnt from the fiasco, which is true to the extent of the odd stalkerish vibes, but I’m still a fumbling idiot when it comes to my interactions with boys. Just ask my friends. Over the years, I heard things about you through the grapevine and I’ve been increasingly glad that things didn’t turn out as I’d previously wished. I did see you on Tinder when I was visiting home the other day, I was swift to swipe left and leave things far, far in the past where they belong.
Love, Grace x
Click here to read the previous letter in the blog series: To, my first “boyfriend”.
Click here to read the next letter in the blog series: To, the boy I give too much credit.