(Sunday Scribblings prompt: Crush)
I had a crush on a boy named Ryan when I was 11 years old. He was a year older than me and we went to the same church. His voice was changing and it cracked horribly, but I didn’t care. At the time, he was slightly shorter than me. (I reached my current height of 5’9″ by the time I was 11 or 12, and then stopped growing. It took the guys a few years to catch up.)
Not long after I realized my crush, we had a Christmas play at church and I was cast as Ryan’s wife. Boy, was I happy — even though I only had to speak a line or two, and it wasn’t like Ryan and I ever had private time together to practice our lines. (Which was probably just as well. If I’d been forced to talk to him one-on-one I would have been horribly tongue-tied and capable of babbling only semi-coherent sentences at best.) But I did get to stand next to him on stage, and I got to call him “husband.” That was fun.
At some point somebody did tell him I liked him, but he never acted on it. Not that I can blame him, seeing as how I looked like this at the time:
I have a picture with him in it, although you can’t see his face very well. This was taken a few years later, when I was 13 and a group of us sang in front of the church. I’m in the back row, far right (with the red shawl), and Ryan is in the middle row, far left.
I wonder what happened to old Ryan? (A Google search didn’t help. He has the same last name as someone who is more well-known.)