Confused about this series of posts? Please read the Introduction and Part 1 before you jump on in.
I felt like I had done it. I had gotten to a point of a healing where I was ready to meet other guys and allow myself to enjoy it. Spring semester of sophomore year began wonderfully. I loved my classes (nutrition especially) and found that I enjoyed devoting myself to studying just as much as I did meeting friends for coffee or getting ready before going to an off-campus party. I had finally figured out a balance and I was happy. Happy. It had been a while since I'd been able to be confident that I felt that way, and boy was I glad.
I'd also like to add that I signed up for a twice a month CSA delivery, got more adventurous in the kitchen, and got myself in the blissful routine of walking the 2 miles home every day after class. I felt lighter, both physically and emotionally, and I felt great about myself.
My year abroad was completely set. I had most things planned out and I was excited while also feeling the twinges of nostalgia as each week passed. Yet by the time that sophomore year was ending, I began to dread leaving. I was so afraid of being forgotten about, so scared that my fun life was going to end. (You know, because I'm ridiculously dramatic). In one of my last weekends I had big social plans for my Saturday night. It was an anything-but-clothes party, I was going to wrap myself in tin foil, and I was going to have the time of my life with my best friends. Little by little, however, I began to get more disappointed in the night. First, most of my friends bailed on the party last minute. Second, I got caught at the bus stop while nearly every car in the area drove by, was blinded by my shiny silver costume, and stared at me like I was the weirdest thing on the face of the planet. (To say I felt foolish would be a massive understatement). Third, the boys that were throwing the party didn't deliver in any way possible: they didn't pick us up, most of them weren't there when we arrived, and by the time they were, they weren't in costume. The night, in my mind, was a bust.
Until I saw him.
He walked down the stairs and I noticed him immediately. I even said something to my friend next to me, prompting her to encourage me to talk to him, leading me to... do anything but. Sure, I was more than fine at this point, but that didn't mean I was any less awkward! I wouldn't have known the first thing to say. Yet within 45 minutes somewhere the stars aligned; He came up to me instead. We talked for a while, we even kissed briefly, and right before leaving, we exchanged numbers.
The next morning I woke up late with a slight headache. I was glad that the party had gotten fun because of a flirty thrill, and was more than ready to go on with my life. Then, three days later, I saw him again at a mid-week, day-long celebration called MayFest. We practically spent the entire day hanging out and I was blown away by how decent of a guy he was. And so attractive! We saw each other almost every day from that day on. It was fun, it was amazing, but I didn't think it would actually amount to anything. I mean, I was going to be studying abroad for 10 months; in a month and a half I would be in Ecuador. What serious relationship could actually take place?
The most real and close of them all apparently. But, for the sake of our privacy (and the fact that a lot of the content is already threaded throughout the older posts of this blog), I'm not going to go into the details.
I was so in love. So stupidly happy and in the healthiest of relationships. I could all but pinch myself! We lasted through my entire South American and European experiences, through his first semester of medical school, and with flying colors, I might add. How is that even possible? And so I started to worry. A girl my age shouldn't be this lucky, I thought. I was waiting for the a bomb to go off, for something to go wrong, for my fairytale to break. Deep down though, I'll admit I didn't take these fears too seriously. Maybe I should have... to be continued.