Was it the winter of 1959?

I was ten years old then. My father was taken away somewhere and disappeared. My brother was smart and loved by our father, but I was the opposite. Perhaps that's why my father disliked me before he was taken. When I turned twelve and the distance within our family grew, you approached me at school and reached out your hand. I felt it then. That there was someone who liked me, and that I had found my first love.

We became close. Very close. We would walk along park-like trails secretly at dawn, singing songs softly as we went. To anyone else, we probably looked like we were in a 'some' relationship, and I felt it too. My heart raced every time I saw you.

But our relationship, which I thought would always be peaceful, was severed. When we turned thirty-one, you told me we had to part because you had to go far away. It felt like a lie when I first heard it. I wanted to be with you, I wanted us to stay together... but time didn't wait for us. It just kept flowing as if nothing was wrong.

And today, I am looking for the train you are to board. I'm holding a bouquet of twenty red roses with a piece of paper tucked between the flowers. I have the portrait I drew of you and a letter. I see you in the distance. As you prepare to board the train, I run and run. The moment you see me, I thrust the bouquet into your arms and I—

Mwah—

I gave you our final parting kiss.