As the Seasons Changed: Memory of a Lost Love.
I remember the moment I first saw him strolling in my direction. I didn’t know what had hit me.
He was handsome in a most ethereal way, with emerald eyes and curls that caressed his face and touched the top of his shoulders. “He’s good-looking, but he needs a haircut,” my friends criticized, when I showed them a photo. I loved his hair, golden like the weather on the day we met in late June. He was so sweet, with a boy-like innocence that both inspired and intrigued me.
He listened and nodded shyly as I babbled nervously while we walked down third street. There was an electricity between us. Natural, effortless, organic. We ended up by the river where the ducks swam and squawked happily in the afternoon light. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember how his eyes were fixed on mine, how he made my heart pound and my skin tingle.
He pulled me in with his bear-like claws that sent shivers through my spine, and kissed me like I had never been kissed before. It all felt brand new, like my life before him had been empty. Like I hadn’t known the true meaning of love, or passion, or good conversation. The world seemed to disappear around me, and nothing mattered but him and me.
I finally understood what my Mom had always promised, “When it’s right, you’ll just know.” His hands fit perfectly with mine, his full lips caressed mine delicately, he made me feel like the only girl in the world.
I remember when things turned sour. His mesmerizing gaze was now bleak when he looked at me. My once tender lover was gone, replaced by someone or something dark. The summer turned to winter, just like him and me. He no longer represented that golden summer day, but rather, a violent snowstorm like the one outside our window while he threw words at me that pierced like knives.
I stayed because he was so beautiful. A troubled, tortured, beautiful soul. I stayed because I was so hopeful that the dark clouds would pass, and that the man I fell in love with would come back to me. Our last day together was bitter cold, and February sorrow hung in the air. The snow was piled high, and I crammed myself into his car with all of his belongings.
He wailed as he realized that it was over, that his words and actions could no longer be forgiven. “Please, baby, please don’t go!” he cried. “It’s too late,” I said, even as hot tears stung my eyes and stained my pale face.
We kissed for the last time, long and sweet like our first kiss. I laid my head on his chest to listen to the beating heart that I was so in love with, to breathe in the smell that always lingered on his collar bones. I’d never come to love another scent more. I’d never love anyone the way I loved him. “I have to go now, I’m sorry, I love you,” I said, and then turned to get out of the car.
I could hear his resounding sobs as my footsteps carried me farther and farther away. “Don’t look back, don’t look back,” I whispered out loud to myself.
Megan Atkins is an aspiring journalist and student at Mount Royal University in Calgary, Canada. She’s passionate about writing, travel, health, and using her voice to bring light to social issues. A daily Yoga practice and eating well are how Megan maintains a healthy and balanced lifestyle to support her physical and mental well-being. She feels that if she’s going to help change the world, it will be through her creative and journalistic writing.