The crush was not a lightning strike. It was a leak. Slow, then a flood.
I left early that night, claiming a headache. On the drive home (my mom picking me up, oblivious), I stared out the window and understood something terrible and true: My first love was not a girl my age. It was not simple or sweet or something I could ever put on a timeline for a yearbook. It was a secret, a beautiful and impossible shape—a love triangle with no solution, only a quiet vanishing point. my first love is my friend’s mom
The Geometry of Us