First Love

We met online.

A comment thread on a meme page, of all places.

I said something dumb.

She replied with “lol.”

That was it. That was the beginning.

Her profile picture was a cartoon owl.

Mine was an old photo of me squinting at the sun.

Classic romance.

We were sixteen.

Strangers who somehow became… something else.

At first, we just replied to each other on posts.

Then DMs.

Then hours of back-and-forth, day after day, about music, school, annoying cousins, what we’d do if we had a time machine.

(Answer: go back and not watch Twilight.)

She lived in another city.

We’d never met.

We never even called.

No video.

No meet-up plan.

But somehow, she became part of my every day.

I told her things I hadn’t told anyone.

That I hated math but pretended to be good at it.

That I felt weird in my own body.

That I didn’t know what I wanted to be — but I knew I wanted someone to understand me.

She understood.

She sent long voice notes at 2 AM that started with, “Okay, so don’t laugh…”

She shared photos of clouds she liked.

Drawings she’d never posted anywhere else.

Once, she sent a picture of her hand holding a cup of chai.

Said, “I hate selfies, but this is me today.”

I zoomed in.

Memorized the bracelet she wore.

Pretended I could tell how her day was from the way her thumb held the handle.

We talked for six years.

Not every single day — life happened.

But birthdays.

Eid greetings.

Random rants.

Song recommendations.

It was this strange, quiet thread running through my life.

Never romantic in the traditional way.

But also not not romantic.

We never said “I love you.”

But we did say:

"Don’t disappear on me."

"Message me when you're back."

"That song reminded me of you."

"Don’t listen to them. You're not a failure."

Once I joked, “You’re basically my internet wife.”

She replied, “Then where’s my ring?”

I didn’t know what to say.

There were months when we didn’t talk.

Once, almost a year.

But somehow we always picked it back up.

Like we’d bookmarked each other.

And then…

One day she just didn’t come back.

I sent a message.

“Hey, you good?”

It stayed unread.

A week passed.

Then two.

I didn’t want to spam.

I checked her profile.

Still there.

Still breathing, at least online.

Just… not reachable anymore.

She wasn’t mine to chase, I told myself.

We were never official.

Never real.

Right?

But it stung.

Like a hole quietly opened in my routine.

Like someone hit pause, but forgot to come back and hit play.

I kept some of her voice notes.

Her drawings.

A playlist titled, “Things she made me like.”

She taught me how soft a connection could be.

How real it could feel — even without a face.

Even without a future.

My first love didn’t hold my hand.

She held my brain.

My silly thoughts.

My 2 AM panic.

My bad poems.

She disappeared like mist.

No fight.

No finale.

But I still think about her sometimes.

When I hear certain songs.

When the sky looks like one she would’ve photographed.

She never said goodbye.

But she gave me enough to remember her by.

My first love.

My favorite ghost.

My most beautiful mistake.