I liked the boy with the blue eyes. Two crystalline pools. I wished I could dive into them. Feel the depths of the clear water and be whole. There was something about those eyes, a certain je ne sais quoi.

We loved French. We loved to compliment each other in a language of love, of elegance. But we never said I love you. Je t'aime.

I said it to him three heartfelt spring months later. Three beautiful, new, exciting months that remain the best of my life. When I finally uttered those heart stopping words, I was sure of myself, sure of a response. Don't worry, I did get one. It took a few minutes of stuttering silence, but the reply came in its own time, and there was nothing I could do to prepare.

He said it was a big thing to say.

He didn't say it back.

In two seconds I saw three achingly lovely months go bad. Every chilling first moment, every pulse quickening instance twisted into a swirling pit of despair. Or maybe that was just my stomach.

In the next few awkward weeks that followed, I found every flaw. The array of zits across his pale face. The lack of muscle in every area except his big mouth. The skinny, scrawny body only models would wish to achieve. In those awkward weeks, my perspective warped. He started to annoy me.

The boy with the blue eyes started to annoy me.

Two murky, undecided swamps. If I dove in I would drown.