A Love Story.

I got my first heartbreak at 15. His name was Aris and I loved as much as my 15-year-old heart would let me.

He didn’t break up with me, I broke up with him and I didn’t choose to my parents did. He was smart, funny, a dancer, but he was also older than me and my parents did not like that they also didn’t like how much time I spent talking to him.

My mom‘s response to my heartbreak was every action has a consequence.

See, I wasn’t allowed to date, I wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends, talk to boys on the phone, none of that until I was 17. My parents said I either have to wait until I’m 17, or be able to properly define the word “boyfriend” to their standards. I never could. At that age, a boyfriend meant making out in between classes at your locker, holding hands in the courtyard and being walked to soccer practice. My parents didn’t agree. At all.

Aris was the love of my teenage life, and sometimes, I feel like if I didn’t break up with him in high school — we would have gotten married as soon as I graduated like a lot of my other small town friends. Instead, I broke it off, went to college in the metro city, and moved on with my life.

But there is one thing I’ve never been able to do — define the word boyfriend.

I had a boyfriend that turned into my almost husband, and we were exclusive to each other — well, I was — I had a boyfriend before him too.