I try hard not to, but oftentimes, I am in love with the idea of love. I am in love with life, which is something I would never have said a year ago. I fall in love with characters from books. I am in love with nature and its mysterious and beguiling beauty. I fall in love with lyrics and melodies from songs. But never in my life have I fallen in love with another human being. (A man, without a doubt.)

I thought I was in love with Adrian when I was fourteen. Or fifteen. He was four years older. I thought that was what being in love was like; I wrote poems about my feelings for him and I cherished moments we were in the same classroom. I adored being with him even more as we talked during morning and lunch breaks. I believed I was in love whenever he drove me to the library or to my house in his white Toyota Celica. I was thrilled when we were placed in the same Biology class; I felt privileged when I wrote his English paper because we both knew that I excelled in my English classes. I believed I was in love when I went to Ala Moana Shopping Center with Jovelle to see him go up the stage for an award for his sculpted pieces displayed in Neiman Marcus. I felt I was even more in love when he gave me a $20 Paul Frank (which I totally adored) t-shirt on my fifteenth birthday. I must have "fallen" deeper in love when he came to the beach on my birthday (which, incidentally, was the first time I "stripped" in front of a boy -- I stripped out of my shirt + shorts and was wearing a two-piece OKAY!). I was "in love" when we'd talk on the phone for long periods of time, only hanging up usually because he had to go to work. I adored him when he drove me to the library and stayed with me until I finished what I was doing as he napped on the table because he was feeling tired from work and classes. In fact, I even admitted that I was in love with him. The first time must have been when I spoke to Kent, his younger brother, on the phone but Adrian was not home. I left a message, saying, "Please tell your brother I'm in love with him. Make sure he gets it, okay?" It was one of those breathe-in-and-release-the-courage-for-ten-seconds-to-say-this moments. I "knew" for sure I was in love when, one Saturday morning, I was walking in the rain after having attended Dr. Wong's class for extra credit, Adrian rolls down his windows and tells me to get in. We were "fighting" at the time and I refused to get in his car, but he scolded me and told me to get in and we sat there for the longest several minutes of my teenage life, not saying anything to one another, me, dripping wet from head to toe. I was afraid because I knew he was upset with me, but he wouldn't let me continue walking in the rain and after the longest moment of silence in my adolescent years, he started the car and drove me home, right into our garage even though I told him to drop me off at the corner of Gregory Street because everyone was at home and there was a slight possibility that my dad would kill him because I might be seen in an older boy's car and that was unacceptable at the time to which he only replied, "I don't care if your dad sees. I'm driving you home." I was "in love" even when we were thousands of miles apart, keeping the CD he burned for me close to my heart, with the The Calling's "Wherever You Will Go" playing on loop.

But I was not in love with Adrian. I was in love with the idea of having a boyfriend. (Because, really, anyone who doesn't have a boyfriend in an American public school is a loser, right? It's sad that society continues to instill this belief up to this day.) I wanted to experience what others were talking about: my friends, schoolmates, words from my novels, scenes from movies, and real-life love stories from magazines I religiously bought month after month. I wanted to experience such things and become part of the norm of society. 

Sometimes I still feel like my fifteen year old self, craving to have a boyfriend for the sake of experience. I whine to my closest friends from time to time, complaining about being single. Sometimes I come to doubt myself as well, thinking, "Am I ugly? Am I fat? Am I not smart enough? Maybe I'm poor? Do I dress like a slob? Am I that bad of a human that I'm not entitled to a boyfriend?" 

But I got older and wiser (I hope) to the point that my idea of romantic love has totally evolved. Of course I'd still appreciate an extra dose of cheese, but I'm pretty sure I have my priorities in correct order now. 

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Hello, my name is Chrisfel. Twenty-six. Single and never been in love with a man -- only this time, happier and getting better and better every single day. Because when the time comes where God says it's okay to fall in love, I want to be the best possible version of me. And when I fall in love, I don't intend to fall out of it.