A connection happened when I was about 18. It was brief… and to the outside world, probably insignificant. But it wasn’t. It impacted me and him in ways others may not have fully seen or understood. He was my first true love. But there’s a certain kind of love story that doesn’t end. Not in the way you think. Not because it’s still happening, but because it was never fully lived. I think the tragedy of this love story was that it never ended—it just stopped. Abruptly. With no proper ending, no true closure—just chaos. A kind of chaos I can’t even trace the origin of anymore, but one that felt unwarranted, unfair… and disproportionate to the magnetic love we felt for each other. Maybe his friends didn’t think It was real. Maybe family didn’t either. I don’t know. But we knew our love was overwhelmingly intense and authentic. In the quiet moments, on a school bench, on the phone, in peace… we both just knew.
But young Shante was brave in love—declaring her heart unashamed, steady, passionate, and truthful. It felt like we passed the razor’s edge of each other’s spirit. A bond formed in the in-between—the space between high school and college, when everything is shifting and you’re suddenly alone, trying to figure out who you are becoming. He called me every day at 11am, and somewhere in that rhythm, we became each other’s dearest friend —before the start of our official journey into adulthood, into college and way before careers.
We responded to each other in innocence, where even the silence was comfortable, familiar and easy. That’s what made it so special, so pure—and whether we fully understood it or not… deeply genuine. So genuine, and so intense, that I don’t think outsiders could fully understand it. But as young people do, when peer pressure shows up and life begins to expand with options and possibilities, you think you have time—you think you have options. And in some ways, you do. But you also learn, quickly, that certain bonds form in a way that is very hard to replicate.
That certain people carry a unique quality that matches your essence so perfectly, that you might mistake it for “young love”—only to look back over the years and realize, oh… this was true love, and nothing else quite fits the same.
We go on to explore love, life, and relationships. And in both our stories, I’m sure there were good lovers, great lovers, solid, respectable connections. But the kind of love forged in innocence… it’s hard to explain, even harder to recreate. It’s delicate, and it leaves a different kind of imprint. Over the years, I’ve reflected on that, and I can say this honestly now: this is a friend I miss. Even as life has moved on in the way that it does, this connection has remained in its own quiet place within me. I believe this is a matter of meeting someone who could have been everything… too early in your story.
Fear. Pride. Shame. Bad advice and immaturity. These are the quiet things that don’t always look like avoidance, but still keep people from stepping forward when it matters most. And when those things are present, even something significant can pass by without ever being chosen. A missed opportunity. Not just of love, but of courage.
And still, I’ve come to a place where I can release what didn’t happen and hold a quiet hope for healing between us. Not in a way that waits or keeps me tied to the past, but in a soft, grounded way that says—if life ever brings us back into the same space, I hope we meet each other differently. I hope fear doesn’t lead. I hope pride doesn’t keep us distant. I hope shame doesn’t silence what’s real. I hope we meet as people who have grown, who have healed, who have learned how to choose what they feel instead of standing still in it; even if only as friends, even if only as acquaintances… but not strangers, and never enemies.
And if that moment never comes, that’s okay too. Because I no longer need the story to complete itself to feel whole. What we had was real. What we didn’t do… is understood. And what I carry forward is this: I will always choose courage where something meaningful exists, even if, once before… we didn’t.
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