You were always the silent type.

Do you remember that summer we spent together as teenagers? That one Saturday, we went for a walk on your grandparent's plantation. I've always loved the south: acres and acres of daisies.

You took drag after drag of your cigarette - we always tried to be so cool at sixteen. And I rambled about eloping in the rain, bearing a child and naming her something crazy and eloquent like Harmony, or Sunshine. It was crazy, but back then nothing was in violation to society. There weren't rules; There was only getting high on liberals, sipping coffee and discussing peace while we spoke of the world as though we had been there ourselves.

Under a humming sun we walked while my hands fidgeted and flailed wildly with speech. You held your white definition of cool by its filter and set a hand on the small of my back. We wandered past the chateau until we found ourselves in a small garden, and you told me the story of how your grandparents had build this place seed by seed.

You said that each flower was a sign of their undying youth, their freedom. And it was so passionate that it hurt to think of that once young couple, so frail in the present, with their paper skin and shriveled hands that would soon have no choice but to let their flowers wilt and drink the rain in their death.

You let go of me and knelt before the lilies. The aroma of your cigarette was so dry that it made me feverish, or perhaps that was only the sun beating against the feathery blonde braids that had become of my hair. And then you did something strange; You rose with a wilting lily, purple and streaked with white, and then you tucked it in the weave of my hair. You pushed at my tendrils with both hands while your coolness hung steaming from a parted lip.

I still remember the way your hands felt, feathery and barely there, like a dream. I was afraid to close my eyes, afraid that you would disappear and take the sweet, dry aroma with you, pluck the ivory and orchard petals from my hair.

For the longest moment, I even thought that you were going to kiss me. But you only stared into my eyes until I could feel my heart beating in my ears. I wanted you to tell me something, to maybe inform me that you loved me. You only smiled. I waited, grinning foolishly for you to comment on the flower you had placed, to tell me that it made my eyes look pretty. But you only stared me down until we both laughed. Your cancerous steam coiled around my nose.

I guess that memories like these are carried with everyone, for each of us have that first love, that summer where we're suddenly eager to speak deftly over caffelatte's and hold everybody's hand. But, in the end, it was our obligation as young people. We each should get our turn to be that stupid kid who knows nothing, yet speaks philosophically.

I still have that lily, long wilted and pressed between two sheets of yellowed and scaly newspaper about Stock Market Crashes. For weeks, it lived in a paper cup on my desk. Looking back, it will always mean something to me. You, my first "love" shall always mean something to me. You and that flower have both taught me so much: Simple things send your heart to run away from your chest, that never saying "I love you" doesn't mean those things won't be valid in another decade. We age, and time doesn't know our names, nor does it care.

In the long run, all that seems so significant is the way I felt at that very moment when you looked into my eyes, the things that I had been feeling. It wasn't the words that were never said that I remember as much as that; Time went on without those. To you, my first love, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for words unsaid, thank you for the lily that sat on my desk in place of the love-letters that I never had the courage to write you. You were always the silent one, but you've said more to me than anyone else ever could.