He had a huge eight-year-old crush on me, and we were in the same second-grade class. He composed a note to me declaring his love for me, which he placed under my school box. A fellow student saw it and handed it to the teacher, who then read it aloud to him, making him feel embarrassed. In the fourth grade, two years later, his family relocated across the nation due to his mother’s work.
Eight years later, when we were sixteen, he added me on Facebook and began to message, wondering whether I remembered him. I didn’t remember anything. I was creeped out when he told me all these stories about us from when we were in second grade. He was there, according to my yearbook, but it didn’t help me remember anything. We continued to talk, and he stated that his extended family still lived in the state where I was born and raised, and he suggested we meet together the next time he was in town. That is exactly what we did, and that is how our romance began.
We dated for five and a half years while he was a thousand miles away from me. For all those years, we flew to see one another roughly every three months. After I started graduate school, I became more intimate with him, and a year later, we moved in together. We returned to our home state when I received my Master’s degree; his family had also recently relocated back there. We got engaged in the fall of last year, and this summer we were married.
Oh, and the note he had sent me in second grade was discovered by my mother in a scrapbook around two years into our relationship; it was on display at our wedding.
According to my spouse, I was around and listening when some students asked him if he liked me and made fun of him for it. He said that he felt ashamed, which is why he didn’t like me. He then came to regret saying that and decided to use this note to reveal his actual feelings. “Dear my name, I was too embarrassed to tell you but I do like you,” it says (in non-elementary English, that is, I am not eight years old). “To:” is written on the back.
