His name is not important–what you need to know is how he made me feel. Because he was different from all the other boys. He didn’t just walk—he floated. When he moved, the world made room for him. His steps were smooth, unhurried, like time paused for him to catch up.
He had the most beautiful voice. Not in a grand, operatic way—but soft, warm, and easy. Like the most soothing music. When he spoke to me, even for a passing “hi,” his words were sunlight. Our brief interactions were slow and golden. Seconds stretched into something cinematic, like a perfect Hallmark movie.
I’d walk home, replaying the moments of a one-minute conversation and wishing those moments were longer. When he’d asked to borrow a pencil, that moment was a turning point. And in the world of ten-year-olds, it was.
Then I grew up.
I stopped doing homework, I put away the little plastic lunchbox, the dolls, the crayons.
He was just a kid. Just another boy in elementary school. I don’t know where he is now or who he’s become. I wouldn’t date a kid anyway.
My husband is taller. He forgets to wash the dishes sometimes and occasionally completely misses the point of what I’m saying. He sings silly rhymes while he fixes the garden fence. He cooks soup in the summer using the outdoor barbecue. It’s jarring and it doesn’t make sense.
He’s not perfect. But he’s a grownup.
But there’s something irreplaceable about our number one crush.
Vanya Wryter Consulting Services 
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