Sixteen and twenty-three.
I was too young for you. You were too old for me. It was socially unacceptable. My mother wouldn't allow it, and my father would have been enraged. But it wasn't like I was romantically in love with you. I wasn't.
You were just my dream boy. You were my standard. You were the bearer of all the things I wanted a guy to have. You personified gentleness and you had the perfect smile. You, out of all the boys I've met, were genuine. You cared for people, you cared for your family. You were quite talented, too. You liked music, you played the drums, you were passionate. You were brainy. You were a visionary.
Excellent and versatile, you were a success story in the making.
You were a total package.
My mother would ask me, what did he do to you to make you feel like this? It was a funny question I never had an answer to. The mere fact that you existed was good enough for me.
It was good enough for me to just look at you from the sidelines, from backstage, from afar. I was content. I was happy. Sometimes, we don't deserve the things we want right away, not just yet. Or maybe, we deserve even better, that we get to have a better option, we just don't know it yet.
I'd like to think I got the latter—more so, I got the best.
I would still cry at your wedding day, I would still look at the girl you'll marry with jealous eyes. You might have been just a passing episode in my life, but you're the kind of guy girls never, ever get over.