When I was sixteen, I fell in love.

And for the first seven months of that lucky age, I was.

But love fades and one learns to let go.

But it was the summer of my sixteenth year that I fell madly in love.

Seattle, the city of my mother's past hopes in dreams. It was here where she found her second love and lost him. It seemed fitting to fate that I was to do the same.

One week, that was all it took, to open myself completely to you. A flash of white teeth, raven black curls, and hazel eyes, so much like mine, yet so different.

Another week, where we'd lazily dangle our feet off of the dock's edge and dip it into the chill water. A week filled with homemade food, chaste kisses, and promise rings made of woven grass.

The third week, a trip into the city, away from the refuge we called nature and home, to Pike's Place, where we shared clam chowder and a loaf of bread from the bistro across the street, where you bought me my first bouquet of flowers, white roses, because you told me that they meant "pure love." After an hour of searching, you found an antique bookshop and bought two copies of "The Illuminated Language of Flowers."

It was from that point on, where we spoke in the language of flowers.

Soon my days were filled with bunches of handpicked or store-bought buds, leaves, and blooms.

A handful of white clovers - "I promise."

A single mallow flower - "I am consumed by my love for you."

An abundance of heliotropes - "I am forever and wholeheartedly devoted to you."

A bunch of lime blossoms, given with a grin that conveyed no sign of seriousness whatsoever. The book says it means "fornication" and at that point I blush and smack your arm in response. I'm rewarded with another one of your dazzling smiles, where your smile grows up until it reaches your eyes, crinkled and twinkling, my favorite pair in the world.

Week after week it continues until then, the weeks grow into months, up until that point that all I'm left with is three more days, until I have to leave, to go back home and face the heartbreak I'm surely soon to be subjected to.

You know. How could you not? It was I who told you "no" the first time, worrying how we could even continue whatever we could possibly have. You laughed then and touched my nose with your fingertips.

So we spend our last days together, learning how to dry and press the flowers we'd exchanged in the little time we had together. There was no rush, no attempt to fast forward to the end. You told me that it was okay that I wanted to wait, as long as I waited for the right guy in the end. You (almost wistfully) tell me that it might be you, give or take a few years. Feather-light kisses and tight hugs are our constant reminders of our affection.

And all too soon, it was time to say goodbye. The day before we'd exchanged addresses, promising to write to each other, like those in the past had courted their loves. It seemed fitting to us, perhaps because our relationship was orthodox, in the age of text messages and emails, where we chose to speak to each other in the exchange of blossoms.

When I did have to leave, you didn't see me off. There were no grand displays of eternal love waiting for me at my doorstep. All I get is a flash of you from your front porch window, smiling and waving goodbye. I'm a little hurt but when I return to the city of lights and bustling people, it doesn't hurt as much.

Life goes on as it did, with no promised letters in my mailbox. I smile, like I always have, because we didn't part on unsavory terms. Sometimes it gets too hard, without having anyone to confide in, without having someone who possessed the same level of understanding you had for me. It is times like these where I pull out our journal of pressed flowers, inhale their fragrant scent, and remember the past summer.

But on October 10, there is a ring at the doorbell. A delivery man is at my door, calling my name. I walk out and sign his clipboard, wondering what I could have possibly ordered. I go up to my room and open the package, where the scent of roses washes over me before I can really get a good look at the box's contents, a dozen of tea colored roses. I rush to my bookshelf, find my book, and hurriedly flip through the pages, until at last my eyes rest on the simple inscription that speaks so many volumes.

"I'll remember, always."