Anthony: The boy, the myth, the Lynx Africa.

Write about your first crush.

Let’s get one thing straight here, I don’t actually remember my real first crush. Not properly. Which says a lot. Either it was tragically uneventful, or my brain binned it along with my shell suit and any dignity I had between the ages of 11 and 17.

But for the sake of this prompt (and your entertainment), let’s say it was Anthony.

Anthony wore Nike Cortez trainers, the Forest Gump ones, because obviously he was an athlete. By which I mean he once scored during lunchtime football and ran like he had gravel in his socks. He had spiky hair stiff with gel, a full-size Adidas duffle bag (even though we only needed a pencil), and the energy of someone who absolutely wouldn’t pick me for rounders.

He said “alright” to me once, while stuffing a Wham bar into his mouth. Reader, I fell in love.

And by love, I mean I stared at the back of his head in assemblies, scribbled our names in the hearts of the leftover wrapping paper I used to back my English book, and strategically stood near him in the lunch queue like a creep. Because nothing screams soulmate like shared proximity to a Turkey Twizzler.

Of course, Anthony fancied Kelly. Kelly with the cute butterfly clips, matching gel pens, and frankly terrifying self-confidence for a twelve year-old. I didn’t stand a chance. I had a frizzy side ponytail and a permanent rash from wearing cheap tights. Love was not in the air.

Needless to say, it didn’t work out. Much like every relationship since. But that’s not the point. The point is: first crushes were basically just us projecting entire life plans onto someone who could barely spell “definitely” and once burped the alphabet.

So here’s to you, Anthony.

You taught me nothing, ignored me completely, and yet lived rent free in my mind purely because you had good trainers and knew how to volley a sponge ball.

Cheers, babe.