The Crush That Wasn’t

I was 17 and had just unlocked the holy trinity of teenage freedom: a driver’s license, a half-reliable car, and parents who happily filled the tank.

Enter: her. Sixteen. Bright. Cheerful. Needed a lift home from youth group. Or outings. Or basically anywhere that I could feasibly drive without stalling.

I had a crush. A proper, heart-thumping, overthink-everything kind of crush. Only problem? I’d sooner attempt parallel parking on a hill in reverse than tell her how I felt.

Instead, I did what every self-respecting awkward teenager does: I provided transport.
And listened.
And nodded earnestly while she talked about how cute James was, or how tall Ben had gotten, or how she “wasn’t really into anyone right now, but who knows what’ll happen at the church camp.”

I thought this was just friendship. She might have thought it was courtship in low gear. Hard to say. Historians remain divided.

What we do know is that I continued to offer lifts and understanding, all while silently hoping she’d one day say, “Hey, I’ve been talking about other guys this whole time to get you to make a move.”

She didn’t.

I didn’t.

Classic stalemate.

Years later, it clicked that she might have actually liked me. And that I, armed with a full tank and a complete inability to read emotional subtext, had driven right past the signs.

We’re still friends. She got married. I went to the wedding. Brought a nice card and a present. Ate the cake. No regrets, no wistful sighs during the speeches.

We never talked about it. Probably never will.

But when we bump into each other now, I’m genuinely glad to see her. No baggage, no awkwardness, just the quiet understanding that teenage years are best remembered with a smile.