Two Sides of Young Love

His Side: Life After Her

“So, you went anyway?”

I shrugged at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked raw. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I went.”

And she had shot me down again, calm and methodical, like she was reading from a script. No tears, no hesitation, no parachute for me. I had driven to her house with my brand-new license still warm in my wallet, hoping against all reason that this time she might waver. That she might admit she felt even a fraction of what I felt. Instead, she offered the same gentle, devastating reasons: we were too young, I was leaving for college soon, and we should both see other people.

Our last real date had been my senior prom. That night had felt magical, full of promise. Under the dim lights, with her hand in mine for the slow dances, I had finally admitted to myself what I had known deep down for years: she was the one. We complemented each other so naturally. We had grown up side by side, our families intertwined since before we were born. We played guitar together — she singing with that clear, sweet voice while I kept rhythm beside her. In our sheltered circle, everyone assumed we belonged together. Even our mothers seemed to be quietly planning our future.

A week after the prom, I called her and poured out my heart. I told her I didn’t want to date others. I wanted us — the real us, not the sanitized version our families had imagined. She listened quietly, then delivered the blow: people were starting to think we were a couple. It would be healthier if we both met new people.