Dear Savannah,
I think the time has finally come where I can tell you about the boy from far away without cringing so hard that my face hurts.
What a stupid thing it is to fall in love at church camp.
Sorry, I know that's going to sound harsh when you're young, but I need you to know that these things never work out.
Never. Ever. Ever.
And here is a definitive list of why these things will never pan out the way you think they will:
- Boys from other churches live (at a bare minimum) very far away. Others will live very, very far away. [And gas money is expensive in the future, so don't even humor it, kiddo. Save your money for more important things, like late night fast food runs.]
- The ones who bring their guitars and aren't part of a worship team can't actually play. Spare your ear drums.
- And the ones who can play are mostly playing to get attention. They'll play alone under trees, brooding and crooning out obnoxiously bluesy renditions of old worship songs with watery eyes. Don't walk over to comfort them. Literally every other girl on campus will do that for you.
- Something is in the air, and it isn't love. (Hint: it's hormones. It's only hormones.)
There will come a time, Savannah, when you'll read this and say, "Well, of course! Camp crushes are an incredible waste of time!"
And that will be the year that you will get hit out of nowhere by the boy from far, far, far away.
He'll be a musician, and incidentally he'll even be your age (which will be unusual since this will be the year you go as a "counsellor in training", and you'll be stuck in this weird purgatorial age between the adults and the students).
He'll croon out Frank Ocean and John Mayer and you'll find yourself swooning a bit more than you ought to be.
At the end of the week you'll even write down your email for him (because giving him your phone number will seem "too forward" for some bizarre reason), but you'll end up texting anyway.
I'll be honest, I'm having trouble romanticizing this next part, being where I am now. See, at the time, you'll be riding that ridiculous emotional high from camp and everything will have that fuzziness -- a blushing vignette -- over it, so you won't be able to see just how incredibly awkward the situation will look from the outside.
Your friends will humor you for the first week or two, but eventually you'll hear them tip toe around you with things like, "So do you think you'd be happy in a long distance relationship?" and "Is skype even romantic?"
And you'll say yes, because this boy is the closest anyone has gotten to caring about you in a long, long time.
(Jesus, I'm so sorry that that's true. I'm sorry that some totally average boy from Indiana whose idea of getting to know you consists of "What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?" and "Have you ever had sex?" is the closest thing to love you'll feel in a long time.)
You, being you, will doggedly pursue conversation while trying to remain south of the annoying border. You'll ask him about his family, and his favorite pieces of poetry, and what he loves about playing music, and every answer you'll record in your heart as if it's the most precious secret you've ever been offered.
But he won't ask you anything back until you prompt him to, and then it will be something a kindergarten teacher would ask her students. Uninspired, and frankly unthoughtful.
But, my God, you'll persevere. You'll ask him anything you deem important, and occasionally throw in an easy one, just so you don't come off as too intense.
When you find out that he is texting other girls from camp, you'll dismiss it with a "well, we're not dating or anything", despite the fact that he had told you how badly he wanted to kiss you. And how badly you wanted to kiss him.
In fact, that'll be just about all he does say to you. Instead of bothering to get to know you, he'll just talk about the things he would like to do to you.
Savannah, you'll lose months of your life just glued to your phone for that boy. And those are months you'll never get back. You'll go places, like bonfires and parties, but you won't really be there - not really.
When he starts school in August, he'll stop talking to you entirely, too busy with school work and socializing, and whatever the hell one does at college in Indiana. You'll text him and he won't text back for hours, maybe days, and you'll feel like a piece of garbage someone is just too lazy to throw in the dumpster. He'll never give you a goodbye and you'll be left trailing after him with thousands of questions.
You'll try to move on, but your heart will continue to do that stupid skip-beat thing every time you see his name on your phone, and instead you'll end up fighting even harder to keep his interest. You'll text him just to ask him how his day was, and you'll pursue conversation just so he doesn't forget about you.
You'll work so hard at this, that it'll make you never want to fight for anyone ever again. (And unfortunately, that's another story for another time.)
Two weeks will go by without a single text from him, and you'll officially throw in the towel, after much embarrassment and many pitiful tears. You're friends will call him an asshat (and they'll be absolutely right), and you'll begin to see him as just an ordinary boy.
And then, out of the blue, you'll be sent a picture of a lamp (well, not a picture of a lamp, but rather, there was a lamp in the picture and not much else), paired with a string of words that will make you uncomfortable, then angry. After five minutes without a response, he'll text you to explain that his idiot frat friends took his phone while at a party.
You won't respond.
Another picture with another string of suggestive vocabulary.
Another "apology" on behalf of his "friends'" behavior.
This will be where you will realize a few things about the boy from far, far, far away:
- He is an asshat.
- He's an asshat who apparently doesn't know that blaming his "friends" for dirty messages is one of the oldest tricks in the book.
- He's an asshat who never actually wanted to get to know you, and that's why he didn't give two shits when you told him what your favorite poem was, or bothered to ask you questions of substance when you were trying to get to know each other. All he wanted to do was call you pretty and tell you how badly he wanted to kiss and cuddle with you.
- (You really could never be in a relationship with someone who was allergic to dogs.)
You, being you, will accept his apology. But you, being you, will sever the ties there and finally move on.
Savannah, I write this to you, and it's not eloquent like some of my other letters. It's messy, and vulgar, and it's not filled with flowery metaphors, but it's important for you to know that nothing about this situation is, was, or ever will be romantic. You'll be where I am a year later, looking back and laughing, littering this letter with the word "asshat" because it's the only suitable noun for such a person as the boy from far, far, far away.
Don't be mistaken, you'll absolutely hit a new low point because of this boy, and you will suffer for almost three months. You'll feel more alone than you've felt in a very, very long time.
But little one, if you are reading this after you're heart has been shattered by the boy from far, far, far away, I want you to know that there are a few good things on the horizon waiting for you: two jobs, a play, and Halloween night. (More on those later.)
Forget about boys from Indiana, and boys from camp, and boys who don't handle your heart with care. You are valuable, and there are actually people who will treat you that way. Just hold fast, little one, they are coming.
Love,
Yourself.
