I was sixteen when I met him.
Not at school, not at an event , not even through a friend.
Facebook.
It started with a simple "Hi" in my inbox, the kind of message I usually ignored. But there was something about him the confidence in his words, the way he called me "beautiful" like it wasn't just a word, like it was a fact. At sixteen, that was all it took to make my chest warm and my heart race.
We talked every night. For hours.
About music, about dreams, about how the world didn't understand us. He told me he had never met anyone like me before that I was different, special. And for the first time, I felt like I wasn't just "the friend" or "the nice girl." I felt… chosen.
So when he started asking questions
Where are you? Who are you with? Why didn't you text me back?
I didn't see them as red flags. I saw them as proof he cared.
When he told me he didn't like some of my friends, I told myself he just wanted to protect me.
When he got angry if I didn't reply fast enough, I convinced myself it was because he loved me too much.
He was older, more confident, and he knew exactly what to say to make me feel like I needed him.
And maybe that's why I ignored the part of me that felt smaller every day the part that whispered that maybe love wasn't supposed to feel like walking on eggshells.
But I stayed.
Because no one had ever made me feel so wanted before.
Even if it meant losing little pieces of myself to keep him.
The first time I saw him in person, it felt like stepping into a movie.
It was at the State Library, a Saturday afternoon. My friend came with me mostly because we both wanted to make sure he was real and not some middle-aged creep using a fake picture.
When I spotted him, leaning casually against one of the pillars with his phone in hand, I felt something I'd never felt before: wanted. Like, really wanted. He looked up, his eyes caught mine, and he smiled like he'd been waiting just for me.
My friend nudged me and whispered, "Finally, Ivy. You're grown and someone actually sees you."
And in that moment, I felt it too. Like maybe this was the start of everything I had been waiting for, something that was mine.
It's not like I wasn't loved at home. I was.
But love at home felt… different. Conditional, sometimes. Or maybe just divided. We were six kids, and I was the quiet one, the one who didn't ask for much, the one who didn't fight for attention. My parents cared, I know they did, but I was easy to miss in all the noise.
So when he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, it felt like oxygen.
It felt like winning.
It felt like finally being more than just the background girl.
And I didn't care about the way my stomach tightened when he got a little too possessive.
Or the way my friends said his questions were too much.
Or even the way my world started revolving around his texts and calls.
Because for the first time…
I wasn't invisible.
I was his.
When I finally saw him, he was exactly who he said he was in his pictures. No tricks, no filters, no lies. He stood there in a black hoodie and dark jeans, hands in his pockets, looking like someone who belonged in a music video relaxed, confident, completely at ease.
He smelled good too, like something warm and expensive I couldn't name, and when he looked up at me, he had this smile. God, that smile. It hit me before we were even close enough to say "hi." From afar, it looked effortless, like he knew exactly what it did to people.
But when we got closer, I couldn't even bring myself to meet his eyes. I was super shy, suddenly hyper-aware of how my heart was beating way too fast, of how my palms felt sweaty, of how small I felt next to him.
My friend glanced at me and grinned. "He's actually cute, Ivy. Like, really cute."
I wanted to say something back, but my throat felt tight, my voice stuck somewhere between nerves and disbelief.
All I could think was: He's here. He's real. And he's here for me.
For once, I wasn't the girl in the background.
For once, I felt… chosen.
He wasn't that much older, just eighteen, while I was sixteen - but to me, those two years made him feel like he knew more, like he had his life together in ways I was still figuring out.
We were perfect, at least in that moment.
He even came with gifts nothing huge, just a chocolate, bracelet and a little note that said, "For my girl, so you don't forget me when I'm not around." No one had ever done something like that for me before. I felt like my chest could burst from how excited I was.
We sat together in the library café, talking about everything and nothing, laughing like we'd known each other forever. I barely touched my drink because I was too focused on memorizing his voice, his laugh, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
And then, before we left, he leaned in.
My heart nearly stopped.
I'd been practicing in the mirror for days, terrified I'd do it wrong, but when his lips touched mine, all those stupid worries melted away.
My first kiss.
Soft. Warm. A little awkward because I forgot to breathe, but still… perfect.
I can still remember it like it was yesterday the way my hands shook after, the way I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt all the way home. For once, I wasn't invisible.
For once, someone had picked me.
I didn't know then that sometimes, the things that make you feel most alive can also be the things that start to break you.