I love you.

It’s a short phrase—maybe even overdone, with the number of times I say it. But there isn’t a sentiment that means more, that carries more weight than, “I love you”—nothing that articulates something beyond simple affection and more along the lines of, “You mean the world to me: the sun, the stars, the universe, and everything pales compared to you.” So, this humble expression will have to do.

Before you, it’s fair to say that I never understood this kind of love. I scorned crushes, perhaps because I never considered myself the kind of person who would be fortunate enough to have another person see me in that light, and I dismissed non-platonic adoration as unnecessary.
You’ve heard this all before, and you know that I’m not sure if the beliefs of 12-year-old me were fueled by true dislike of the idea of love or were a reflection of the way I saw myself: disgusting and unlovable. And you know that I’m quick to defend my preteen self, too: Who knows how much of that was spurred by genuine discomfort with myself and how much was driven by fluctuating hormones?

It’s not a question that I find particularly important to answer. Regardless of the past, my present is now. It’s you.

Oddly enough, we went through all of those awkward junior high years alongside each other, perpetually unaware. You say it would have been wonderful for us to have met in that period of early adolescence. I vehemently argue that had you seen my ill-fitting SpongeBob-themed wire-rimmed glasses, my ratty hair and my ugly ensembles—the products of a misguided sense of what suited me and what, in fact, did not—you would never have wanted to speak to me again. (You always insist otherwise, but let’s face the facts, buddy.) First impressions hinged heavily on appearances at our middle school, and in a time of flux I was caught between figuring out who I was and trying to emulate what I thought would make me cooler, trendier, more popular among those who were richer in social currency.

And all of that focus on what I was supposed to be rather than who I already was crippled me. Nobody knew about the witty comebacks or the snappy remarks in my head, the manga I really liked or the subjects I loved to draw. The person inside of me suffered from my overzealous efforts to fit a nebulous, impossible standard. What a waste of time.

Why?

It turns out that the coolest thing is, truly, to be yourself. The simplest advice triumphs over the most complicated mental algorithm.

That’s why I’m glad we met in high school. I’d finally got it together in my head, The coolest thing of all is to be you. I wanted to chop my hair short, against the advice of well-meaning people around me who insisted that nobody liked girls who had cropped cuts. I said, “Thank you, but who cares?” and sheared it all off anyway. I felt like wearing loose hoodies and shirts patterned all over with cartoon characters from the ’90s and the faces of my favorite pop culture icons, and when I kept getting comments about how my clothes looked like “pajamas” I said, “Fuck it!” and rocked what I liked. I stopped trying to be the demure and polite little girl I thought I was supposed to be and embraced the person I’d always felt like. Looking back, I wonder what took me so long.

Maybe I was just too scared, before.

When we met, I was confident, more confident than ever before and happier with myself without the burden of the carpet-like weight of conforming to someone I was not. The moment I saw you I wanted to talk to you, learn about you, discover all your little quirks. I knew I would regret it forever if I let you slip away.

But even knowing all that, for a moment I hesitated, and just for a brief instant I was back in seventh grade, doubting myself.

Luckily, time isn’t reversible, though, so I shook it off and asked you about a video I’d seen online. As Rick said in Casablanca, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Best friendship. Everything and more than best friendship.

Indescribable love.

For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always accepted me, picked me up when I felt down, and listened to the things I had to say—no matter the subject. We’ve shared so many good times, great times, that fill my heart and my soul. You can make me write mushy stuff—the very thing preteen me would have had to excuse herself to barf for if she read it—and I never, ever mind. If past me, the version of myself wracked with hurt over being everything she perceived a pretty, popular girl should not be, were here, she’d slap me angrily across the face and accuse me of being a traitor. How dare I abandon the grounding thoughts of our early years of teendom? How could I turn so quickly?

And I’d tell her that growing up, accepting yourself, and learning who you are, doesn’t happen quickly. But when it finally does, it’s so, so worth it. I realize that now. And meeting you was one of the things that made me see how much I’d grown, and how much I’d come to embrace myself enough to extend that love to another in a new way.

Above all, thank you. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for talking to me that first day, and for everything else. I love you.

You know who you are.

—By Victoria C., 18, Alberta, Canada