It wasn't the first time I loved, but it was the first time I loved like that. I saw her at the high school entrance ceremony. The air in early March, where the excitement of the first day of the semester and the scent of spring—not yet fully ripe—tickled the tip of my nose. Except for the seniors preparing for the CSAT, the exam of a lifetime, the whole school listened to the principal's speech in the auditorium. Unlike the lively freshmen, the sophomores, who were fully dressed in their blazers and name tags for the first time in a long while, looked somewhat grown-up. Among them, she was beautiful, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. It wasn't hard to realize that this wasn't simple admiration or a young girl's bravado, but love. Probably from the moment I realized I had unconsciously memorized the name on the yellow tag pinned to her chest, right over her heart. I followed her into a book club that had nothing to do with my career path, exchanged numbers under the pretext of senior-junior bonding, and since we had them, we kept in touch... and eventually, we dated. We ended up kissing, and doing things even more ticklish than that. She went to a prestigious university. But the worlds of nineteen and twenty were more different than I thought, and I was no longer in her world. Maybe she thought that she wasn't in my world anymore, either. After holding on for a full year, we broke up. I was twenty, and she was twenty-one. My three-year puppy love that started at seventeen came to an end. After that, I was too afraid to even hear the occasional news about her. I did hear that she had a boyfriend. At that time, I think I inwardly mocked that man whose face and name I didn't even know. 'What an idiot. That girl likes girls,' I thought. And last night, as if mocking my mockery from four years ago, she contacted me. She's getting married. To that man.