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I dreamed about a boy I hadn't thought about in years, this morning. Details I didn't think I'd remember were all there. The nape of his neck that ran down in a smooth slope into his muscular back, the warmth of his skin that was eternally and inexplicably caramel, the crook of his back where I would rest my head, my "nook", the smell of him. I didn't think I'd paid that much attention, perhaps I did, or perhaps this is all a fabrication of my mind. Nonetheless the same sensations he inspired in me came back in full force.

It was the only time I felt looked after.

He was the one who I can say, without hesitation, had truly loved me. Yet I had treated him so terribly, with such indifference. I broke his heart, the night before his birthday no less. I couldn't understand it then. I quite simply did not believe in heartbreak, or love, or any of the other things that made a person vulnerable to another. Yet he was the only person I allowed myself to be vulnerable in front of. Only once in my life have I ever reached out to another person for support, the full kind, the kind where you barely make it into their arms before you collapse in a heap into them. His was that pair of arms. I was only able to stand because of him, but I gave him none of the credit. Just his presence would be a source of comfort, I was drunk with his warmth.

He wanted me to be better, and in rebellion, I wasn't. All the things I took issue with him, all the fundamental ideological differences we had that seemed so monumental at the time are, in reality, nothing. But I was an idealist then, I would grow to be more tolerant, years later.

This is the relationship that is going to haunt every other one I will have in my lifetime. I was spoilt to the point of conceit. A part of me would perhaps always be searching for something to come close to that abundance of affection.

Looking back at the nineteen year old me, I wish I could grapple her to the ground for the sheer ingratitude. Not to ask for a different outcome, but only that she could have been more kind. But some of you might remember nineteen year old me, there was a whole other bag of problems there that I'd rather not delve into just yet.

This post is about J, and the apology he deserved, but never received. If this blog is all about a public confessional, then let this be the first of my major confessions. Forgive me father, for I have broken a heart.

This is all so many years ago, and we have both moved well and truly on. We have spoken since, and even met up once, the night before I moved to New York. We are, by facebook standards at least, "friends".

At the end of the dream, he walked away from me, and I grieved, in a way that I never did back then.

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