I was 3 months old, he was born.
I was 4, he wanted my lollipop, I stuck my tongue out at him.
I was 7, I cried when he threw a snowball at me and laughed. I hated him.
I was 13, I became conscious of him as a definite being, a small photograph in his house, a bored little boy staring into the camera, on his first trip abroad. Being at a phase where boys and their pursuit formed a major part of my thoughts, there was an instant flutter in my heart, a feeling I would later pin as attraction. With the passage of time, we met but rarely, I sidelined my little fascination, faced by his acute teenage shyness and apparent lack of interest in me.
I was 14, he walked into my room while I was still in bed, plaguing me with a deep sense of embarassment. He offerred me gum, which I later preserved in my little stash of memorabilia.
I was 15, with a newfound confidence in myself, devoid of pimples and baby fat. I returned home from my school fete, dressed in a purple sweater and jeans, and he sat there, unable to take his eyes off me. I played with his feelings, walking away, for once in control, knowing that I hurt him.
I was 17, freshly graduated from High School, and ensconced in my first serious relationship, as was he in his own. I was carefree and happy, using my femininity to tease and entice, able to speak finally without inhibitions around him.
I was 18, busy with a fulfilling college life, he stormed in and changed it all with a year of endless phone conversations, incessant flirting, advice, and the foundations of a strong friendship.
I was 19, we kissed. And I had never felt so alive.
I was 20, he went away. Nursing a broken heart and a sorely bruised ego, I tried moving on, and in time succeeded, only to find my way to further heartache and misery.
I was 21, stronger and less vulnerable. Pegging it to attraction, we continued on the stony path tagged "no strings attached", throwing all caution to the wind.
I am 22, he tells me, "you're mine, only mine". Is that really true?
