It’s been almost 10 years since I met my first love.

I won’t say I miss those days, but there’s something about the memories that always brings a smile. They’re my favorites—no matter how much time has passed, they’ve left a permanent mark on my heart.

Everything back then was my first. The first time I felt my heart race for someone I barely knew. The first late-night conversations, endless texts filled with secrets and promises. The first time I realized that love wasn’t something you find—it’s something you grow into, slowly, over time.

March 11, 2011.

I know the exact date I opened a social media app called Migme. I was new, unfamiliar with all the features, and yet I was buzzing with excitement. I did the stupidest things just to chat with new people—anything to feel connected.

I talked to so many strangers. Some asked me for my real name and number, and some even sent me their photos. I guess I sent mine, too. Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at how naive I was.Luckily, there were people I knew who were good with apps, and they taught me the ropes. They even invited me to their group chats.

(There was this trend at the time where people created groups based on their city’s name, gathering locals to chat.)

That’s when I met him.

His ID name was smacker-90.

He was always online, everywhere, engaging with people, making sure no one was left out. And it was him who first messaged me.

“Hey, Sas_gal11,” he wrote.

My ID name was sas—looking back, it’s honestly kind of funny.I replied, “Hi, smacker.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sasa,” I typed.

“Nice name,” he replied.

I couldn’t help but ask, “What about yours?”

“Sky.”

I grinned and joked, “Clear or cloudy sky?”

He laughed.

“Where do you live?” he asked. “Since we know everyone here, maybe I know you too.”He asked if he could add me, and I said, “Okay.”

So, we moved to chatting in our DMs. He asked me all sorts of questions—what I liked, who I was, all those get-to-know-you questions.

He was a talker, while I was a little quieter, just answering as we went along. I was in 10th grade, and he was in 12th—almost finished with school.

I don’t know what kept us talking, but we did. Back and forth, day after day.

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped something that made my heart skip a beat.

“I don’t really live here,” he said. “I live in Bosanta City.”

Miles away from where I lived.

I was shocked. “But you said you were from here?”

He paused before replying. “No, I’m from there, but I came here to study.”“Ohh, okay then,” I typed, still in disbelief.

But then he said something that made my heart race again.

“I think I’ve seen you before… or I must have seen you.”

I was in total shock. How could that be? I hadn’t even sent him my picture.

“How?” I asked. “I didn’t even send you my photos.”

He replied, “I asked around, people in the group here.”

I stared at the screen, unsure what to make of it. “So, you know me without even seeing my face?” I laughed a little, but my mind was spinning.

“Yeah,” he said casually. “You study at that school, right? You have black hair, light skin, you carry that bag. I see you walking that way to school.”

I was in total shock. He was describing me—the real me—so perfectly.

“Wait… What?” I asked, still in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he replied, almost matter-of-factly.

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing nervously. “When did you see me? You live so far away from here.”

He paused for a moment, and then his message appeared.

“I came home last month. And you’re cute.”