I remember when we first stopped talking. We'd had several pointless arguments before, always caused because of misunderstandings or simply because of lack of communication—most of the time my fault, always being too prideful and short-tempered. Many times, I didn't want to listen, not even letting you explain to me what the problem could've been.

In all honesty, deep inside, there was a reason behind those actions.

When we first started talking, I immediately noticed something about you was different. You weren't like the other girls I spoke to. Whereas they simply jumped to flirty conversation and always seemed to try to act so much more grown up than they were, you had a childish yet mature way of being.

The conversations we had were so genuine; it almost felt like you actually cared about the things I'd tell you.

You would ask me about my interests and my fears, wondered how my day was, and it really struck me how you never really rushed things. And you were never clingy. You were simply genuinely caring.

I tried flirting with you a lot and you'd always burst my bubble, replying back with a joke or simply teasing me. But you were never mean about it. I loved that. And I know I told you that it slightly bothered me how you never flirted back, but in reality, I found it funny—intriguing even. It made you different.

The day you finally admitted to liking me, I couldn't believe it. It was so astounding to me when I realized a girl like you actually had an interest in someone like me. Now, that's not because I was insecure. In fact, I have to admit I was actually an egoistical jerk. Too self-centered and conceited. I'd had a lot of girlfriends, but when you crossed my path, I almost felt unworthy of having you like me.

You were—and still are—too good for me.

As time passed, I found myself falling in love with a girl I hadn't even dated. It drove me insane knowing you felt the same way for me and yet, I could never get a taste of your lips, get to hold you in my arms, or simply have the privilege to hold your hand.

Not only because you couldn't date but because I just knew you would never pick to be with me. Despite the fact you, too, had feelings for me, you would never do it. We wouldn't last. We were too different and that would eventually cause us to crumble down because I didn't want to change. It was selfish, but it was true. As much as I loved you, I couldn't change.

So we decided to be friends.

And we became best friends. You would tease me and tell me your stories, and I would tell you my secrets and my problems. You were the best listener. You were the only person I could really talk to. I knew you would never judge me or leave my side even if you knew all the flaws present in my life.

That only gave me one more reason to fall deeper in love with you. Your kindness made me feel things a teenage boy should never be able to feel, for he would lose all his manly reputation, but there I was, feeling butterflies because of a girl.

I tried getting into relationships again after a while, knowing you would never agree to be with me, as much as I tried to get you to say yes—and oh, I tried hard. You wouldn't budge.

Every girl I encountered, it wouldn't last more than a month. I always found myself comparing them to you. Expecting them to respond to me in the same humorous ways you would, wanting the same kind of advice you would give me, or maybe simply hoping one of them would make the effort to stick around the way you did. But they weren't you. And they would all leave, or they wouldn't meet my standards.

It was making me go crazy how much you'd messed me up—now my standards had sky-rocketed because you were just so good, and I couldn't even find a girl because you were always there, invading my thoughts. I couldn't help it.

I would bring you up whenever talking to a girl I was dating, telling her how great you were but how oh, they had no reason to worry because we were just best friends.

Who was I fooling? I was your best friend because I didn't have a choice. If it were up to me, I would've made you mine in a heartbeat.

And then they would get mad at the fact I kept talking about you like you held the universe in your hands. They would get consumed by jealousy and I could not blame them. After all, they had every reason to be.

And then it would all be over and I would run back to you, and you would be there. You were always there. No matter how badly I'd hurt you, how long I'd gone without speaking to you, or how much I talked about a new girlfriend to try and get a reaction from you, you would still be there.

I always wondered how you were even real. I mean, I know it sounds way too cheesy and that phrase reeks of cliché, but it was very true. Seriously, what kind of girl does that?

Whenever I spoke about how 'in love' I was with somebody, you wouldn't get jealous or angry, despite the fact you still had feelings for me. Instead, you would advise me on how to get the girl, or how to keep her. How was that possible?

And how was I ever stupid enough to ever let that go?

So now you understand why on that one afternoon, when we had that argument, I let it happen. I was so afraid of how deeply I'd fallen for you, and I didn't know how to handle it.

How would I be able to continue living my life knowing I could never have you? I wanted to get over you. I had to get over you. We could never happen. The only way to rid myself of those feelings was by shutting you out and letting you go.

I knew the argument had been my fault, but I had to pretend I was truly mad at you because this was my chance to get rid of you. It was a terribly selfish thought, but I was like that. Always too consumed in myself.

It was the best for both of us. I needed you to stop wasting your time on me and my pitiful life. I was too messed up and you were too good. We weren't good for each other—or maybe I just wasn't good for you. Either way, you didn't deserve any of it.

You deserved somebody who could swim oceans and climb mountains for you. Not me. Not a sad, dumb boy who barely knew how to swim and was too afraid of heights.