A letter to the boy who was my first love. I never got to say all of this, so I’m saying it here.

I haven’t spoken to him in an about 4 years. We were each other’s first real relationship, and though it ended, it ended softly. With care. With kindness.

There’s no bitterness left, just memories. Some that still come back with music, scent, silence. I wrote this letter not to get closure, or to rekindle anything, but just… to say it. Somewhere. To let it live outside of me.

If you’ve ever loved someone deeply, and had it change you, you’ll understand.

If you’re reading this—somehow, some way—it means I finally had the courage to say what’s been on my chest for a long time. There’s no hidden motive behind this. I’m not writing to get you back, or to fix anything, or to stir up the past. I just… need to say it. For me. For us. For everything we had.

I still think about you.

Not every day. Not in a way that stops my life. But in quiet moments—driving past places we went, hearing a song I know you and your mom loved, or catching a scent that feels like a whisper of you. Sometimes, all it takes is nothing at all. Just a silence that somehow sounds like your name.

We haven’t spoken in a long time. And I don’t even know who you are now—what you’re doing, how you’re feeling, where life has taken you. But I remember the version of you I knew. The one who let me rest my head on his shoulder by a quiet stream. The one who smiled big when he finally got that truck part in Colorado and said, “I got my part and my baby boy—what more could I ask for?” You probably said it casually, but I felt that one in my soul.

You made me feel like I was someone worth loving. Not just liking or tolerating—but really, genuinely loving. And I never told you how much that meant, how much I needed that back then. You made me want to be better. You made me feel safe. You made me feel like I was enough—and that’s something I hadn’t really felt before you.

Even after we broke up, you stayed kind. You still checked in. You still showed up. You still made sure I knew I mattered, even as things slowly slipped into something unspoken and unfinished. And I respect that so much. You didn’t leave me broken—you left me gently. I’ll never forget that.

I remember falling asleep on your bed and waking up to find out you and your mom had gone to the store to cook. You told me you talked about me the whole time. I never asked what you said, but I think about that day often. You were different when you got back—lighter, maybe. Like something had clicked.

And your mom… she was always so good to me. I was so nervous the day I met her. I probably came off weird and awkward, but she made me feel welcome. I’d talk her ear off now if I could. And when you told me that she didn’t think it was over between us—that one day something might bring us back together—I never forgot that either.

I don’t know where the little cactus I gave you ended up. I wonder if you packed it when you moved into your house. If you still have it tucked away somewhere, or if it’s long gone. I wonder if you kept any of the notes I used to write, or the jacket I left behind. I still have your old guitar strings, and no—I’ve never told anyone. It’s not about holding on. It’s about honoring something that mattered.

And you did matter. You mattered so much to me.

I’ve changed a lot since then. I’m more confident now. More sure of myself. I think we’d be great together now, honestly. But I also understand life doesn’t always circle back, and maybe that’s okay. I don’t need a reunion to be grateful. I don’t need answers to believe it was real. Because it was real.

You were my first love. And I’ll always wish you nothing but good things.

I hope you’re happy. I hope you feel proud of who you are. And I hope—maybe, just maybe—there are still moments when something small makes you think of me.

Just know this: you were loved. Deeply. Softly. Truly.

And I’ll never regret that.