We met at a summer camp called Center for Talented Youth. You were 17, starting college a year early, with an unfortunate affection for Objectivism and a dream to name your future son Charlemagne. We made out in the philosophy section of the Union Square Barnes & Noble and I, 16, bought an Ayn Rand book so you’d think I was smart.
My mom picked me up from the Amtrak station, took one look at the collage of hickeys on my neck and said if it happened again, I wouldn’t be able to visit you anymore. You broke up with me soon after because I just seemed “so young.”
We stayed Facebook friends until I deactivated mine, and the last thing I remember seeing about you is that you named your son fucking Colton.