At the end of my Valentine's Day date, my first-ever boyfriend of four months told me he loved me while I was sitting in his lap at the bus station.
I said, "Aw, thanks!"
Of course, I felt pressure to say I loved him too, especially since he had brought a rose and teddy bears to to my house. But I didn't love him. Damn, why did he have to be so serious, I thought. I'm just in this to have fun and kiss you.
I was fifteen!!! I wasn't even ready to let him touch my breasts, but he still loved me? I felt badly for letting him get so attached to me, but I just really loved when he told me I was beautiful. He made me laugh a lot. He said he loved my laugh. I adored the attention, the thought of someone thinking of me as a woman -- he was the first person to describe me that way. I wasn't keen on him -- or anyone -- being in love with me. Maybe I should have seen it coming.
We dated for over a month after the incident and he kept telling me he loved me. Then we both got busy: he with his go kart racing and I with my part in the school play, so our get-togethers tapered off. Then the phone calls did too. I called him and said I knew he was busy, but that it wasn't cool to ignore me. The next day he very softly and nervously broke up with me.
I was relieved.