He was everything I’d ever wanted, everything I’d ever dreamed about. When he smiled, my entire heart would sink into my chest, and the butterflies in my stomach would multiply.

He was perfect to me.

He might have never had the highest opinion of himself, but I thought he was beautiful. I spent days upon days with him, sharing my thoughts and feelings of my home life, relaying every single detail to him. He would listen to me, occasionally give me advice, and tell me of his own family.

In a sense, we grew up together. He was my best friend, and I was his. I felt like he was probably the only person that even cared to know much past my name, and I confided in him. He was my knight in shining armor, providing comfort when other kids picked on me or when my good-for-nothing mother proved just how little she cared about me.

But this isn’t just about him. It’s about someone else, too.

Someone who had always confused me – someone who still, to this day, confused me.

And this is my story, my much unfinished story.