You were always popular with the opposite sex, even in second grade. I admit that I harbored a monstrous jealousy as I watched all the girls gravitate to you. I hated them, and perhaps I hated you too for not reciprocating my feelings. At that age, my idea of flirting was being loud and obnoxious, but now as I reflect on my strange behavior, I realize that I was merely trying to get your attention. When summer break arrived that year, I discovered that we would be going to the same summer camp and I was beyond ecstatic. I somehow felt that I had gained ownership of you since we would be spending three whole months together and none of the girls from school would be around. Silly me. There were other girls at camp. I thought I was going to die. Then one day in June, while we were riding the bus someplace, you said that you had a birthday present for me. You reached into your backpack, and then presented me with three tubes of lip gloss—purple, pink, and blue—and asked me which one I wanted. I picked the blue one. Now twelve years have passed. I haven't seen you since that time and I don’t know what happened to that lip gloss, but to this day I can still remember everything about it. And whenever I catch a whiff of the lip scrub that I use everyday, which coincidentally has the very same scent, I still wonder if maybe, just maybe you liked me too.
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