DEAR SANTIAGO,

YOU SWEPT ME OFF MY FEET the moment I met you. I mean, come on, you had it all. You had this warm brown skin, the messy dark hair, the pure Brooklyn leaking into your voice and coating your words. 

I think I would have been more surprised if I hadn't obsessed over you somehow. 

You were a charmer. 

There are some people who walk the world with ease, with casualness. Those are the people I have always wanted to emulate; the people who are of the world and yet not at its mercy. The people who navigate social settings without having to figure out the inner workings of the human psyche. 

So, the first time you and I talked at that barbecue, I knew that it wouldn't be the last time we talked. Not because I was any sort of social, but because you were, and you were cool and several leagues above me but it was easy to forget that when you gave me attention. 

Craving attention is this thing that humans see as embarrassing. I mean, how humiliating is it to admit that you want people to love you? But why are we here, if not to feel love and thrive within it? Admittedly, some attention was better than others, and I liked your attention. 

Think about it: here I am, sophomore year, totally heartbroken — and then you, Santiago Mendez, fly into my life like some sort of bird, tugging me out of the pit I found myself in when I lost my ex-best friend, Wesley Byrne. 

The day after the barbecue, I'd realized we were in the same band class. In fact, we both played sax, and you were a chair or two away from me. I hadn't said a word to you because I'd figured the barbecue conversation was a one-time thing. I spared glances your way but didn't say a word. 

But then, somehow, Santi you found away to get seated next to me. I watched the way your eyes brightened as you told the two people next to you that you'd like to get a better view. Of the front, I assumed. Later, you told me that the view was all me. 

My mama always told me to beware of boys who spoke like butter laced their tongue. She was definitely warning me about boys like you. 

But I loved your pick-up lines, your flirting. It was fun, new. Maybe I couldn't reciprocate with the same level of smoothness, but I would hang on to your every word. Because, like I said, attention was one of those things I hated to admit I loved, especially when I didn't get a ton of it.

You didn't crack jokes during class like Wesley, but you'd grin at me. If you screwed up a note, you'd grimace at me and I'd laugh, because it was like this little joke, this little moment that was just us.

So, I looked forward to Band. Laugh at me all you want, but playing the saxophone got that much better when Santi Mendez was present. I loved the way you'd groan about your reed or empty spit from the tube of your instrument while glancing at me with this semi-amused look. It was like a: did you see that? And my response was always a grin, like: yes, Santi. I totally saw that.

You did a lot of the talking, but I liked that. At the same time, you didn't do too much talking, and I liked that too. Band was spent side-by-side, and you made band cool. I don't know how to explain it, Santi, but you had that effect on everything. You weren't ashamed of things, of people. Someone once asked you why you were hanging out with Arnold Steward, president of the goddamn Star Trek Club, and you simply raised your eyebrow at him, because you didn't find problems where there weren't. You weren't embarrassed over things that people insisted required embarrassment. 

You'd explained to me one week in band class that you had this goofy, unapologetic family that taught you that there was nothing about yourself that was worth being ashamed of. Nothing about the people you loved that was something to be ashamed of. So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when you finally asked me out one October day.

And yet I was. I mean, you were asking out me: member of the Robotics Club, girl with the frizz-prone hair and buggy eyes, girl with the goddamn A+ in Band, of all classes. But you thought I was funny and you'd said that day: "we have fun together." And you had a half-grin on your face and sincere eyes so I believed it. 

One day, we decided to go for milkshakes together at the diner in town. Or at least, you'd asked where we could go, and I suggested milkshakes, and thus, we'd decided to go. 

I was there early. I darted down the street on my pastel pink bicycle with the goddamn basket on it — and I arrived in the diner and slid into one of the booths. 

And you weren't there.

It was the time we'd agreed to meet and you weren't there. And by then, I'd deflated. I'd heard horror stories from my fellow girl Robotics Club members about "Pull A Pig", a game where a guy would essentially try and feign interest in the least attractive girl he knew; if she bought it, he would have successfully "pulled a pig" and humiliate her by letting her know. 

It was gross, but unsurprising. I never wanted to be the victim of said prank, so I kept my head low. Douchebags had this thing where they could not allow a girl who they deemed unattractive to live in peace, and so if you weren't athletic, curvaceous nor didn't possess the god-ordained genes of Elodie Miller — you, as a girl, were essentially screwed. 

I looked really pathetic there: just sitting in my booth with my sad little straw swirling around in my chocolate milkshake. I was foolish, and had let you tug me along for over a month, only to find out that I'd been duped. 

I rose to my feet then, unable to withstand the embarrassment any longer.

And then, you barreled in. 

You looked around, eyes wide, and when your eyes landed on mine, you rose a hand to your chest, exhaling a breath. And then you were at my table, and I was staring at you because I could not believe you were there. 

In the back of my head, this whole date would eventually be a no-go and prove disappointing, but you didn't disappoint. Sure you were late, but you were there. Maybe I'd just developed low standards after my non-relationship with Wes, but to see a boy rushing into a room to see me — well, a grin appeared on my face despite myself.

You were panting as you slid into the booth, rolling a Toblerone over to me. "I am so sorry," You had said. "I tried to bike but I don't know my way around this goddamn town! It was wack, I'm telling you." You settled down, hands moving as you spoke. "Picture this: I'm running around the whole place like I'm clueless, I ask around a bit, I arrive at a convenience store and grab some chocolate for you... this and that... then I finally arrive at this godforsaken place. Ten minutes late. I am so sorry, Eden."

And my grin only got wider. Which it shouldn't have, because you were late. But then again, it made sense, because you were all flustered so you were breathless while you were speaking and you had brought me a Toblerone, one of my all time favorite chocolates. Santi, to a lovesick fifteen year old like myself, you may as well have just proposed to me right there. 

So the date went well. 

We talked about music. You were a fan of music just like I was. We shared song recommendations. We downed our smoothies, we gave each other a sip. I've always been the type to overanalyze, to wonder if a person felt as close to me as I did to them, if it was okay to share a cup on the first date. But you weren't. You were the type of person who just didn't care. You stared at my cup and pointed your paper straw at me. "Can I? We can switch."

So, we did. 

It was my first date ever actually, and I quite liked it. Not many dates could compare, really. For two sophomores who'd known each other for just about a month — we were quite good at the whole first date thing. Or so I thought. It wasn't exactly like I had another first date to compare it to.

We were cool, and I felt infinitely more impressive with you talking to me. You were interested in everything I had to say. You were expressive, especially when you got caught up in a good story. You would grin and your hands would move to enunciate every word. 

Your dad was deaf, so you chose to learn ASL alongside your mom and kid sister. You also felt as though everyone should. I liked that. I liked that as fun and easygoing as you were, there were things that truly mattered to you, things that would ignite a passion in your eyes that could be seen from a mile away. 

I liked you a ton. 

So, I was giddy over you. Especially after we finished our drinks and you tugged me outside of the store. Especially when you led me to a bench outside the diner and smiled at me. Especially when we had another milkshake date after this, and another, and another. Especially when you would open up every date with a cheesy pickup line like: "I know I can't have your eyes but our kids can." Especially when you rode home with me and kissed me on my front door stop the evening of our fifth milkshake date. 

I really couldn't get enough of milkshakes. Or really, I couldn't get enough of you. I think the thing about me, I'm learning, is that I didn't just fall for people, I plummeted. Once the initial fear was subdued and the possibility of my crush liking me back arose, I was all in emotionally. I plummet so hard that in almost every relationship I've ever been in, I've been more in love with the other person than they were with me.

I spent pretty much all of sophomore year gushing to my parents about you. Thankfully, after a couple of awkward conversations at the beginning of the year, they didn't bring up The Fallout With Wesley again. Mom was happy that I was happy and she liked you. Dad was happy that you weren't Wesley, but unhappy that I was into yet another boy, and he'd always grumbled that schoolwork was a more important concern for me. His grumblings were always pointless however, and even he knew that, because I stayed an honor role student even when I was seeing you. And we actually did get a lot of band practice done at my place when I wasn't giggling as you flirted effortlessly with me.

Santi, we hung out for a year. 

You kept things casual, but not secret. We didn't date sophomore year, but you'd still find me in the hallway and swing your arm around my shoulders. We'd watch movies at your place or play Monopoly with your family. Your family was cool. 

I loved your little sister, Paola who would hold my hand and tug me about the Mendez house. I loved your family's crusty white dog, Estrella. 

I loved your dad because he was as funny as you, and I'd furiously watch ASL tutorial videos every night before I came over so that I could relay some basic sentences to him in his language. It was worth it because his eyes would crinkle when he signed back. 

I loved your mom because she wasn't a big speaker, like me, but it was nice to wash dishes alongside her in the kitchen as she hummed a 90s tune to herself, grinning if I knew the song.

Sophomore year came to an end but we were still strong once we left the year behind us.

Summer was a downer because you went to Italy for vacation. You texted often, whether it be bad one-liners or stunning views. I appreciated your messages, a reminder that you cared. Santi, you weren't the type to ghost. You simply didn't. You cared, but you didn't make caring look like this embarrassing, silly thing. You did it without effort, as if vulnerability was this perfectly easy thing. 

The summer months were lengthy. I joined Robotics camp, and managed to make a few friends. I was intimidated at first, when I stepped into camp for the first time, but I was immediately adopted by the girls in the camp. All of them were stunners, these girls with quick minds and pretty eyes. These girls who made science fun and charming and entertaining. It was a bummer that the camp was out of town and most of the girls didn't attend our school, but I didn't sweat it. If I had you and charming, intelligent friends, then maybe I wasn't all too useless at the social thing.

I did a lot of sketching and songwriting. I never actually stopped. I sketched you, my friends from the camp, and my oblivious parents around the house. I wrote songs, happy songs, free songs. I wrote poems sometimes too, poems about how I was learning to be a bit okay with how I looked.

For the longest time, I was self-conscious over my lanky body (inflicted on me in middle school by puberty), with my narrow shoulders and slim frame. But I was growing into it, I thought, or maybe I was growing into myself. I liked my look. I was learning to tame the curls of my hair and had them in braids for much of the summer. 

Still, I missed your presence and our milkshakes and my school Robotics Club and band class. 

And finally, my wishes were granted when both you and September rolled around. 

You asked me out to Homecoming. You didn't ignore me for other girls, not the way Wesley had. I remember the way you led me about the dance, your hand on the small of my back. You were graceful in every fiber of your being. You were handsome too, that night. You had your black hair all slicked back, dark strands curling around your ears. Your eyes were were a deep hazel, and your suit was crisp. But you had the first few buttons of your dress shirt undone because you didn't like to be too constrained, too trapped, too restricted.

We took pictures. For years, I've had that picture of us from Homecoming. We stood behind a floral background. I was wearing a muted cerulean dress, my hair straightened and you were in your suit. I was smiling big, my body curved into yours, your hand slung around my waist. You had this tilted grin on your face, almost more of a smirk than anything else. Together, we made sense. We were a fairytale prince and princess. In fact, I'd been so besotted with you I'd only vaguely noticed that Wesley and Elodie were crowned king and queen.

The first half of junior year went like most of sophomore year had: the two of us hanging out, sharing milkshakes and laughs and updates about our days. We spent time in each other's houses and cracked jokes in band. You would hang out by Robotics Club and the two of us would drive to the diner or to my place or to yours.

Sometimes we'd study, sometimes we'd practice our saxophones, sometimes we'd flirt. And sometimes, more.

Sometimes we'd watch reality TV in the living room during afternoons before your parents got home from work and your sister from daycare, and you'd hold my hand. Sometimes you'd lean forward and kiss me. You were a kisser. You kissed your parents on the cheeks, your sister on the head and me on the hand before a date. 

I loved how affection just emanated from you. You made people know that you were all about them.

Those afternoons, you'd ask and then you'd kiss me and my eyes would flutter shut. And then, if I was up for it, you'd kiss me again. You'd pull be back down with you against the couch and just pepper kisses all over my face, which was your way of saying you were glad you had me and you were glad I stuck around.

And finally, you made it official.