My first love taught me something dangerous: that happiness is real. Not hypothetical. Not something reserved for other people. I had it once, in my hands, in my chest, in the way the world felt lighter just because she existed in it. And now I carry that knowledge like a bruise. Because once you’ve been happy in a way that rewires you, you can’t unknow it. You spend the rest of your life measuring joy against something that no longer belongs to you.
Five years later, the heartbreak still shows up uninvited. Not loud, not cinematic, just quiet and persistent. It slips into ordinary moments: a song, a smell, the way afternoon light hits the train window and you know she would love this city just as much as you do. I don’t want her back, not really. I want the version of myself who didn’t know how fragile happiness was. I want the innocence of believing love, once found, would stay.
Dating after your first love is strange. Everyone feels like a comparison, even when you swear you’re being fair. It’s not that they’re worse, it’s that they’re new, and new love doesn’t come with proof. My first love proved something to me. That I could be chosen. That I could feel safe. That my laughter could sound like home to someone else. And we did, we laughed so hard, all the time. Losing her didn’t erase that truth, but it made it harder to trust again.
Riding the L Train now, I tell myself this ache is evidence that happiness is achievable, that it once existed, that it will exist again, even if my heart hasn’t caught up yet. The train will keep moving, the city will keep pretending nothing lingers. But I still wonder if you think of me when it rains.
