Dear Poppy 01

I met you in Russian class.

You were younger than me, soft-spoken, but with this quiet gravity that pulled people in without even trying. The way you dressed--scarves, skinny jeans, flats that clicked softly on the floor--you had this polished look that made you feel out of reach. But it wasn't just the way you looked. It was the way you smiled, the freckles under your eyes, the way your laugh felt like something I wanted to wrap myself in.

I don't even know how I had the nerve, but I asked if you wanted to study with me. You said yes. That was all I needed.

Later, I invited you to hang out at my friend's place. You came in those boots I liked, with that eyeliner that made your eyes impossible to look away from. We watched bad TV and ate worse pizza. I remember you curling your legs under yourself on the couch and laughing like the world was only that room, just us. When I walked you back to your dorm that night, I already knew. I liked you. A lot.

I asked you to dinner after that. You said, "Dinner could be fun." And it was. You were playful, a little guarded, but sweet. We played 20 Questions after the food was gone. The questions got bolder. I asked, "If I kissed you right now... good idea or bad idea?"

You said, "Good idea."

I kissed you, and it changed everything.

It was winter, Valentine's Day in fact, the night we first had sex. Snow started falling while we were out--just dinner again, simple--but I remember it being cold enough that I kept glancing at the sky, thinking I'd need to head home soon.

We got back to your dorm and curled up in your bed. You had your head on my chest. I remember brushing your hair back from your cheek as we kissed again, slowly, deeply. It felt like time stopped for us right there.

"I should probably go," I whispered. "If I don't leave now, I'll get snowed in."

You looked up at me and said something that made my heart stop:

"That wouldn't be such a bad thing."

You left for the bathroom to change into sleep shorts and a t-shirt. You still had your bra on underneath, which for some reason made it even more intimate, more real. I stripped down to my boxers and t-shirt and climbed under the blanket with you.

We turned off the lights and just held each other. You were warm, and your breath slowed against me, and it felt like everything outside that blanket didn't exist. We kissed again. Soft at first, then deeper. I let my lips drift to your neck--your favorite--and you moaned so quietly, like it was only for me.

I'll never forget that sound.

My hand found its way under your shirt, grazing your bra, and I paused, scared of going too far. But you looked at me, eyes wide and honest, and whispered, "You can go further if you want."

"How far?" I asked.

"All the way."

My hands were shaking as I kissed you again. I climbed on top of you, slid my hand under your bra. I'd touched breasts before, but this--this felt different. This was you. This was real. You helped me out of my boxers and told me we had to be quiet--because the girl next door was in a Christian club, and we both laughed a little at how absurd it felt, whispering and fumbling in the dark.

You guided me, helped me peel your clothes off under the covers, slow and nervous. You had this tiny tuft of hair above your clit, and when my fingers brushed through it, you made this soft sound I'll never forget. I touched your pussy, and you moaned again, breath catching, hips lifting to meet me. I kissed your nipples through your bra, then underneath it, tasting you, worshipping you.

I wore a condom. I was nervous as hell--couldn't even stay hard the first try. I remember going soft, frustrated and embarrassed, but you didn't laugh or pull away. You kissed me harder, stroked me slow, and told me it was okay. That you wanted me.

And somehow, your hands, your mouth, your words brought me back to life.

I put on a fresh condom and finally, finally entered you.

It was slow. There wasn't much thrusting--we couldn't risk the bed squeaking too loud--so I ground into you instead, deep and careful, rocking against your clit while I was inside you. You gasped, biting your lip, clutching me like I was the only thing tethering you to the earth. I kissed your mouth, your neck, your shoulder, told you how beautiful you were. How good it felt to be inside you. How much I wanted you.

And somehow, through nerves and inexperience and all the fear in my chest, I made you come.

You gasped, head tilted back, mouth open but no sound coming out. When you caught your breath, you whispered, "I've never had an orgasm before."

I blinked. "But I thought you said you'd had sex?"

You laughed, flushed and glowing. "I never said it was good sex."

God, I'll never forget that.

We had sex a few more times. Only three, in total. And each time, I was nervous--because I cared. Because I wanted to be good for you. Because you were the first person I'd really opened up to that way, the first person I made love to, not just had sex with. There's a difference. You taught me that.

But two months. That's all we had.

You went on that mission trip with your Christian friends. You barely texted me while you were gone, and I knew something had changed. When you came back, you told me we had to stop having sex. You said it gently, almost like you were testing to see if I'd leave.

But I didn't. I told you it was okay. I meant it.

I would've waited. I wasn't with you for sex, Poppy. I was with you because of how I felt when I was around you--how you made the world softer, warmer, a little more hopeful.

So, instead, you wrote me a letter.

The irony isn't lost on me. A printed letter in the age of phones and emails and face-to-face words. You printed it out in a study hall, sealed it in an envelope while I sat there beside you, not even knowing what it was. Then you walked me to a quiet patch of grass by the road, sat me down, and handed me your goodbye.

I read your words. All the reasons why we couldn't be together. You didn't mention religion. Not once. But I knew the truth. I saw it in your eyes. You couldn't say it out loud--not then, not to my face. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. But the words on that page weren't yours. They were someone else's shame wearing your voice like a mask.

I walked home alone after that, broken in ways I didn't yet understand. You were my first for so many things. My first real kiss, my first night in someone's bed, the first person I ever loved enough to be scared of losing. And I lost you.

Later, I found out what really happened. That your friends--those same Christian girls who smiled so kindly at you--pressured you. That they told you I wasn't good for you because I didn't believe in their God. Because we had sex. Because I didn't fit into the life they wanted for you. And you listened. You let their judgment override your heart. You let them shame you into giving me up.

I don't blame you for it.

We were young. You were caught between what you felt and what you feared. And fear wins, sometimes. Especially when it's dressed up as righteousness and handed to you by people you trust.

I don't think you were cruel. I don't think you meant to hurt me. I think you were scared. I think you didn't know how to say, "They're making me choose, and I'm choosing them." So you wrote a letter instead.

And I hope--God, I hope--that somewhere down the line, you looked back and realized what you gave up. Not in a bitter way, not with regret that eats at you. Just... knowledge. That I loved you, and I wanted to love you longer. That you had something real. And that you walked away because someone else told you to be ashamed of it.

I forgive you. I always did.

You were my first, Poppy.

And I'll never hear Lady Gaga without thinking of you.

Sincerely,

That Boy You Gave A Lady Gaga CD For Valentine's Day