Crush: Served Two Ways

A Starter of Kisses, a Main of Heartbreak

12 August 2025

• 1,811 words • 11 min read

First Love at Twelve

At about age 12, when I was supposed to be ensconced in my homework in the evenings, I was often secretly writing love letters to the boy I adored at the time. This was because I loved him (Richard Davis), I enjoyed writing, and I wanted to have something to give him the next day that showed effort and heart. I wanted him to know how I felt. Maths and geography be damned.

One morning, I had a very rude awakening (literally) courtesy of my father, who had clearly gone through my schoolbooks and found the letter I’d written the night before. While I suspect his real gripe was that I should have been doing my homework - copious money was being spent sending me to a private school - he latched on to the fact that I’d used the word love, and that I was far too young to know what that meant.

Dad was no stranger to raising his voice (Mum would always say, “at least his bark is worse than his bite”), and this was one of those moments. The covers were whipped off me while I was still asleep, and before I’d even properly opened my eyes he was announcing that my letter had been destroyed. I was ordered to get dressed and meet him in the kitchen, then marched out on a dog walk that became a rolling lecture on “getting my head straight.”

I cried the whole way. Not just from the embarrassment and the indignity of having my privacy so blatantly invaded, but because he simply couldn’t understand: I was in love. This “discipline” began a lifetime of concealing my whole, true self from my parents.

Richard and I would see one another on the school bus in the mornings, often meet in town after school for an hour or so, and catch the bus home again. On weekends, if I rode my bike up to the local hangout, I might catch a glimpse of him jumping his blue and gold BMX. In those days, if a boy wanted to be with a girl - as a couple - he would say, “Do you wanna go with me?” to which the girl would reply yes or no… and the deal was sealed. Richard and I “went together” for six months, which was a long time back then.

He gave me my first proper kiss. It was such a huge moment for me. He kept pushing for it; day after day I promised him that afternoon would be the one, and I chickened out every time. In the end, he pulled me into a bush and kissed me passionately. It was wonderful. And he told me I was a good kisser. We went straight in with tongues - and I’ve never really looked back…

What a Crush Really Is ~ And Isn’t

What I’ve learned is that love isn’t something we get better at with age. It just changes shape. The ache, the want, the feeling that you’d risk embarrassment just to tell someone how you feel  -  that’s love in that moment.

Your standard crush doesn’t usually disrupt your life or behaviour in a major way. You like the person, but you’re not obsessing over them. No, I don’t think any of that would’ve sunk in during a round-the-table chat. (But it might have been nicer than the dawn raid I received - just saying!)

A crush is often described as a light or fleeting romantic or sexual attraction  -  sometimes intense, often idealised, and not always based on deep knowledge of the other person. They can be surface-level, sparked by a glance, a smile, or even just a fantasy. They may or may not be mutual. Crushes are often linked with adolescence, but adults get them too (think American Beauty and Kevin Spacey’s character).

Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) in a fantasy sequence brought about by his crush / obsession with his daughter’s best friend Angela Hayes (Mena Suvari) in American Beauty

Emotionally, they can be intoxicating: excitement, hope, giddiness - a combination so addictive that if it were on a menu, I’d order a double portion.

Craig Jackson: The Second Course

If a crush is a seed, Richard was my first sprout. By the time that little romance had run its quiet course, I wasn’t looking for anyone else. But one day on the school bus, I “noticed” someone new. Craig Jackson. To my mind, he was insanely cute. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled up at the sides and sparkled like nothing I’d ever seen. He went to the boys’ grammar school  -  in fact, I’m fairly sure he was in Richard’s class.

He had a wicked laugh, and one day he started kidding around and flirting with me. It worked like a charm. Somewhere in the loft, in the remnants of a thousand other memories, there’s still a Polaroid of him.

What I felt for Craig made my time with Richard feel like kindergarten play. Before long, I was writing Craig letters too - and he wrote back. He had an incredible gift for creative drawing and lettering, and sometimes he’d include his work in the envelope. I was besotted.

We even had what felt like “legitimate” dates - our parents knew about them - school dances between the boys’ and girls’ grammar schools, meeting at Indooroopilly Shoppingtown on weekends or taking the bus back to his place in Chapel Hill.

At one of those dances, we seized the chance for a long, unapologetic pash in the middle of the floor – until the elderly headmistress appeared, bellowing, “STOP THAT! You came here to dance, not do that!” Mortified, we retreated, but it only made the chemistry stronger - soon after, we told the teachers our parents were here to collect us, climbed the nearby memorial hill, and kissed at the top, the clear night stretching wide above us.

The Cluedo Alibi and First Touch

Craig’s family home was gorgeous - all leafy green outlooks and a view over the valley. His older sister was at university, and his room had huge windows overlooking the garden. All we really wanted to do was kiss each other, and we were always looking for opportunities. 

One afternoon, Craig told his mother we’d be playing Cluedo or something in his room. He placed a small sports bag shaped like a boot in the middle of the floor, then took a deck of cards and tossed a few towards it. The rest he split between us. If anyone came in, we’d look like we were aiming the cards into the boot - a perfectly innocent pastime.

In reality, the cards were soon forgotten. We grabbed each other like someone dying of thirst reaching for water. We snogged and snogged, hands wandering everywhere. I wanted him as much as he wanted me - something I hadn’t felt before. He helped me open his pants (his other hand was already down mine) and I slipped my hand in. It was the first time I’d touched a penis, or even pubic hair, and it blew my mind.

We were interrupted by his mother knocking on the door. We leapt apart, straightened our clothes and hair, and grabbed our cards, Craig speaking to her as if nothing were out of the ordinary. She must have known. She was a wonderful, understanding woman. Too soon, my mother arrived to collect me. I was still swooning.

From Passion to Pain: When a Crush Breaks Your Heart

I was definitely in love again. This time, the seed of a crush had grown into something richer, wilder - and far harder to keep hidden. While I giddily enjoyed the next few weeks, I chose not to pay attention to the fact that his calls and attention were dwindling. I shopped for hours looking for the perfect birthday present for him. I honestly felt that would make everything all right again.

But when he stopped calling, and his mother started saying he wasn’t home, the crush turned into something else. Something quieter. Something I didn’t yet have the language for. I was ghosted before ghosting had a name.

I didn’t know a crush could crush you. I wasn’t just crushed - I was actually devastated. I think I lost weight in tears. I couldn’t eat, and getting me to go to school was a royal battle. I just couldn’t understand what had gone wrong - perhaps because nothing had. He was just a 13-year-old boy.

I begged my mother to drive me to his house so that I could give him his birthday present. I was convinced that once he saw me, he would change his mind and realise that this was all just a horrible mistake. He wasn’t there when we got there. It had been such a big move to go there, so full of hope. My mum did her best to explain and Craig’s mum could see the state I was in. She tried her best to comfort me with genuine warmth.

Why Falling in Love Always Feels So Big

I’m here to tell you, though, that this 13-year-old girl grieved her break-up as profoundly as any 35-year-old. To me, my feelings were deep and sincere. Although it was a fleeting romance, it was raw, new, and, to me, evolving. He was my first love, and I had no way of knowing that first love often shapes the emotional blueprint for everything that follows. That experience mattered.

Much of what adults call “love” can still be riddled with insecurity, fantasy, or power imbalance - which isn’t necessarily more “mature” than what a young person feels. When people say “you get better at love with age,” they often mean we become more emotionally intelligent - more patient, more communicative, more discerning. And in many ways, that’s true. If we are introspective, we might improve at the practical skills that help love survive: setting boundaries, expressing needs, not repeating old patterns.

But the feeling of love? The ache, the longing, the intoxication, the way it can both elevate and unravel you - that doesn’t necessarily become more manageable or mature just because we’re older. If anything, love stays just as raw, just as mysterious, just as destabilising - we just get better at hiding it, or rationalising it, or pretending we don’t care quite so much, which is so sad. Because it really is a kind of Holy Grail and should be valued as such.