It was a California winter.
I was in a foreign place, lost in the woods as I stumbled through, trying to find my way. I was twenty then, he was merely thirty one. He was blond, handsome, and had eyes that crashed ocean waves.
Just a year prior, I was engaged to a boy, and I had thought my life was set in stone. But when family dilemmas arose, I had to make a quick decision. I left the town I knew, the busy streets of Los Angeles, to nearing almost Oregon territory. I left everything I knew behind: my childhood best friend (whom I still speak with weekly), a group of friends I stuck to in my early beginnings of college, cultivated out of a prearrangement from back in high school which introduced a few new faces, and a relationship that I thought would last a lifetime.
I moved up North and soon I was alienated in a cove, inside an old cabin tucked deep in the woods. Very little interactions with the outside world, I found myself more drawn to nature. Living my first nineteen year surrounded by noise and metal that the calming flow of creeks across rocks soon calmed my anxieties. But I was not completely happy. I was alone.
Then I met him.
He offered to give me rides around town whenever we were at the college together. He let me sit in the front passenger seat beside him and he listened to everything I wanted to say.
I told him about my ex. I confessed personal struggles as I inquired him of his own. It was the way he spoke, they way he chose his words constructively. He played the part he knew I needed.