My first love: what if I had the courage to say I love you?
You were my first love. You’ll never know, because I never said anything. The timing never worked out.
At first, we just played pranks on each other because we were bored in biology class. Continuous exposure made us good friends. In high school, I finally realized I liked you. You were just as awkward and nerdy as me. But you were also smart and funny and so nice.
Sadly, I didn’t have the courage to say anything. I swear at least thirty kids in our high school had a crush on you. I didn’t think I stood a chance — I wasn’t as good looking, or talented, or smart as the others. My insecurities reared their heads like a hydra. But I wonder if everyone knew about my crush. Was I obvious, continuously looking for ways to tease you, because that’s what little boys and girls who liked each other did?
I have many memories of you, but one stands out: when I met your parents for the first time. We were both waiting after school, kicking pebbles onto the bone-dry grass. Your mom stepped out of the car first. Intimidated, I straightened immediately. She was perfect-looking and untouchable and accomplished in that way certain people are. I couldn’t help but marvel at how different you both seemed — she was cold and distant, whereas you were all warmth and friendliness. Your dad was more like you — laid back and soft-spoken, sporting wrinkled button-downs and an unexpectedly wicked humor. But something about you always reminded me of your mother. Maybe I felt that you inherited some of her untouchability. Perhaps that was why I started to put you on a pedestal, and I was too scared to climb on top of it with you.
Unfortunately, I realized I liked you just before you started dating my friend’s best friend. For the first time, I felt like I lost you, even though you were right there — just out of reach. I stopped hanging out with you so I didn’t have to see you holding hands with someone else. Anyway I was busy frantically trying to get into college. We stopped speaking as much. Eventually we graduated and moved to different cities. And finally we grew up.
It was my fault I let you go. For all our years of friendship, I suddenly forgot you were also your own person. I fell in love with your hiccuping laughs and god-awful puns, not because you seemed perfect. I regretted not spending more time with you, for not giving it a shot. But I learned my lesson. Nowadays, more often than not, I shoot my shots in both my personal and professional life. You still make me a better person years later. It’s beautiful you could have touched my life in that way.
I heard from our mutual friend that you’re doing well — that you finally made it to medical school. That made me so happy. We both struggled so much. Eventually I admitted being a doctor wasn’t in my cards and found a different path, while you kept forging a way forward. I’m glad we both found our way eventually. Our younger selves would be proud.
I used to wonder: what if? Would you be at my side today, humming absentmindedly, teasing me with that crooked grin, nudging me and wiggling your eyebrows, urging me to laugh at your terrible puns? But the memory of you became too sweet for me to wonder anymore. I was just happy you were my first love, and not my last. I found the courage to love others and, most importantly, to love myself.
Letting go of a first love is like setting a paper lantern free on a river. Watching it float away is a little melancholy and wistful. But freeing and peaceful too.
Your first love never completely dies. Whatever happened, whatever happens — my youth will have been yours.
Thank you for being my first love.
