It wasn't my first love, but it was the first time I had loved like that. I saw her at the high school entrance ceremony. The air of early March, where the excitement of the first day of the semester and the scent of spring, not yet fully ripened, only tickled the tip of my nose. Except for the seniors preparing for the exam of a lifetime—the CSAT—the entire school listened to the principal's speech in the auditorium. Unlike the vibrant freshmen, the sophomores, fully equipped with their school jackets and name tags for the first time in a while, looked somewhat mature. Among them, she was beautiful, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. It wasn't difficult to realize that this was love, not mere admiration or a young girl's whim. Perhaps it was from the moment I realized I had unconsciously memorized the name on the yellow tag pinned to her chest, over that jacket. I followed her into a reading club that had nothing to do with my career path, exchanged numbers under the pretext of socializing between seniors and juniors, contacted her because of that, and... eventually, we dated. In the end, we kissed and did things even more ticklish than that. She went to a good university. But the worlds of nineteen and twenty were more different than I thought, and I was no longer in her world. Perhaps she thought that she wasn't in my world either. After enduring for a full year, we broke up. I was twenty, and she was twenty-one. My three years of puppy love, which began at seventeen, came to an end. After that, I couldn't even bear to hear the occasional news about her out of fear. I did hear that she had a boyfriend. At that time, I think I ridiculed that man, whose face and name I didn't know, in my heart. Idiot. That woman likes women, I thought. And last night, as if mocking my ridicule from four years ago in reverse, she contacted me. She's getting married. To that man.