A Letter To My First Love — From A Married Person

So. I saw you yesterday for the first time in a few years.

Since the time you were awkward to me in Seb’s driveway and wouldn’t come see me later on that Christmas week when we were both crying on the phone, both loving and hating each other at the same time. The night I realized you might only love the idea of me after so much long distance.

It feels weird — knowing that years have passed and I don’t know anything about your life — or even who you are or how to talk to you. Especially when we could (and did) talk on the phone for five hours at a time. (A pretty good feat, I’d say.)

Can I admit something? I really did think I’d forgotten you by blocking you out. But for some reason I was so nervous before Seb’s wedding, the bad nervous I haven’t gotten since the days I would leave you (so pretty much all the time), where I can’t eat, think or do anything because I missed you so much my body ached. I had no idea what to expect when I would see you after the last few times we talked were so bad on the phone.

But I forgot. I forgot how in person everything is perfect. How you really are an awesome person in real life and how, after months of terrible phone conversations, it would all disappear the moment we saw each other, even if it was just for a few days. I walked in scared because it does still scare me — life without you. I still think about you all the time — did I make the right decision? There are so many roads you can end up taking in life, but who would have thought I’d end up without you?

And here’s the kicker — I’m writing this as a married person who loves their spouse and has no problems with her life. It almost seems like it’s too perfect.

So I saw you. And drank six mimosas because I was so anxious. And gave you an awkward hug in front of our old mutual friends (more like your friends now) and your mom. Your eyes wouldn’t meet my eyes; they were shifting everywhere, ironic, because now I am the one good at eye contact, so I kept my eyes straight on you. And spent the whole night wondering about you, do you still think of me? It seems like you don’t and that’s good. But part of me hopes you do.

And now it’s over. You are gone again (like always). And I can’t stop crying or get rid of the bad nervous, hiding behind my sunglasses like I used to when we’d say goodbye for another few months. How can you still do this to me? It’s not fair. It makes me feel and think terrible things.

Thinking about it now, it’s just what always defined us — the anticipation of seeing you, the quickness of it, and us going our separate ways. But this time was different because I might never see you again.

The finality. The finality of anything scares me. And even as I’m writing this my husband is being cute and asking me what’s wrong while doing some chores around the house for me, but I can’t tell him it’s because I’m dwelling on the past and wondering why, after waiting so long, we didn’t make the effort. When we finally had a short, it was too late, and now we’ll never know what could have happened. We did always have bad timing.

And part of me wonders if you’d let me see you that December night if I’d even be married right now. I at least wouldn’t be feeling like this I don’t think.

Wow, this is amazing how I can just go back to the way I’d always felt — nervous, depressed, nonstop crying, just from seeing you for a few minutes. What does that mean? Probably that marriage is hard and you never know if you make the right decisions in life.

I have to try to choose to forget you again. Pretend I didn’t think you were so adorable with your hipster hair and tux, like prom when I liked you and kissed you, and you told me no way, you didn’t like me, only to fall head over heels in love with me a few months later and give me some of the best memories of my life for the next few years. Remember my stable, loving, kind and perfect husband, with no roller coaster in sight. Unless I see you again.

I just need to get this out because as usual, you inspired me to write. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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