I hadn't heard from him in 16 years. 25 years ago we were high school friends. He followed me everywhere. At punk concerts, he'd stand behind me with one hand on my shoulder. Just in case. My boyfriend was jealous. I didn't see why. He was just a friend. A good, generous, caring friend. He left long, handwritten letters for me. I'd come home to find a chocolate covered cherry on my pillow and one long stemmed rose.
"That poor, son of a bitch," my dad said. "He's in love with you and he'll never have you."
I confronted him, he denied it.
25 years later, he wrote to me, and said it.
"You were my first love."