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The first time I said "I love you" to someone in a romantic sense was in the September of 2013. We'll call him Mr. Twenty Three. He had just about all the qualities one would want in a partner; he was funny, entertaining, handsome, a good listener, caring, the list goes on.. Our "relationship", though never properly defined, carried through the summer of 2013. It was intellectually intimate, emotionally exhilarating, but never physical. In the weeks before I muttered those three words, Mr. Twenty Three worked to pry them out of me. He knew how I felt and he felt the same. But what led to the "I love you" wasn't as cliche as I imagined it growing up or had seen it in movies. We had been fighting on and off for nearly three weeks. And it was about any and everything. The biggest thing that stuck with me from the arguments was what he told me about myself: I was boxed off, I didn't know how to open up, I never said how I felt. It was all very true; I was scared. I was afraid of vulnerability. Within the next few days I told Mr. Twenty Three I loved him, and I really did. It felt as if the burden I had been bearing had disappeared; I wasn't afraid and felt even happier than I had before. Soon thereafter came the demise of me and Mr. Twenty Three. Before I mentioned all his good qualities but not all of his qualities were good. He was noncommittal, and, at the time, seemed very insecure and victimizing. I wasn't with it. Although I don't feel the same for him as I once did, I do appreciate the role he played in my life. He taught me it was okay to be scared. He taught me to put myself out there, to be me more expressive, to embrace emotion, and, most importantly, to be comfortable with myself. At the time I had no idea that those words would affect me so much. And I didn't realized until recently that that specific argument would be such a monumental point in my development. And although he doesn't know it, Mr. Twenty Three sparked the 'glo up'.