Life is filled with significant moments: taking our first steps, earning a driver’s license, finishing high school, moving out, tying the knot, and starting a family. Yet, no one ever talks about one pivotal experience that shapes our future relationships: our first love—and the heartache that often comes with it.
My story follows the classic narrative of teenage romance. Jason, my first boyfriend, was two years older and hailed from a small town a few hours away. He came to my high school for a volleyball game when I was just 14, one of the few kids of diverse background in a school dominated by ultra-conservative values and high academic expectations.
In an era before the internet and smartphones, my strict parents prevented me from even wearing shorts, so our communication was limited to letters. Since my mother was known to read my mail, Jason would send his letters to my friend’s house. Eventually, I got my own phone line, but we continued to write. While I battled my insecurities, Jason assured me I was his “ideal child.” We were together for four years—my first love, my first everything.
Our relationship included all the teenage milestones: first sexual encounter, first prom date, and, unfortunately, my first experience with infidelity. It was the first time someone told me, “I received a positive HIV test.” It was a whirlwind of teenage drama, from sneaking around to avoid my parents to being confronted by a group of intimidating bodybuilders over a debt he owed me.
Our breakup came just before prom. Despite my investment in his tuxedo, Jason insisted on attending. My younger self, lacking self-esteem, thought it was a good idea, leading us back to his apartment. I was unaware that he had started seeing someone else—a girl who embodied the rebellious spirit of his world, contrasting sharply with my more traditional image.
On my 18th birthday, I was working when Jason called to share that he had tested positive for HIV. I had always insisted on protection, but there was that one time when we didn’t. I told him I’d meet him after work, feeling numb as I completed my shift. As fate would have it, I encountered his new girlfriend, Veronica, while heading to meet him.
What transpired was chaotic. Veronica lunged at me, fists flying. In a flurry of hair-pulling and defensive maneuvers, I kicked her (aiming lower, but missed). Eventually, we both turned our anger towards Jason, who was trying to escape. The police were called, and I faced my first encounter with law enforcement, terrified of disappointing my strict parents.
After a lot of shouting and confusion, we ended up at Jason’s apartment, where he shared the fallout from his HIV test. The uncertainty of it all consumed me, and after receiving a negative result, I remained paranoid, repeatedly testing for months.
I saw Jason only once more after that, when I had a couple of bodybuilder friends retrieve the money he owed me. After that, he disappeared from my life, shaping my views on relationships forever. I still find myself drawn to blue eyes and remain hyper-aware of health risks in relationships.
Then, out of the blue, I received a message on LinkedIn. It was from Jason, apologizing after 25 years, claiming it was a little strange but he always was unusual. He had changed his last name and wanted to know how I was doing.
My instinct was to text my high school friends, speculating about his motives, humorously assuming he might be in recovery and compelled to apologize. Logic suggested I shouldn’t respond, but a part of me, protective of my younger self, was curious. I accepted his request and asked him two questions: Why the name change? And what exactly was he apologizing for?
While I found closure decades ago, I remain open to healing old wounds.
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In summary, reconnecting with my first love after 25 years has opened old wounds and raised questions that I never thought I would revisit. It’s a reminder of how our early experiences shape our views on love and relationships.