There’s a sweetness to first crushes—something shy, clumsy, and tender. They’re often less about the person and more about awakening feelings we never knew existed.
Mine came wrapped in the innocence of childhood—unexpected, awkward, and completely unforgettable. I was 5 or 6, maybe even 7, when I first felt that flutter. He was the boy next door in more ways than one—the one who made me giggle behind cupped hands and whose company felt like sunshine.
I still remember our very first “kiss” behind the little barn in my backyard—just two kids lost in a make-believe world where affection bloomed like dandelions. We shared stolen kisses behind what we called “the kissing tree” on our elementary playground, as if the tree itself gave us permission to be brave in our affection.
Then came second grade—and a move that took me away. But young hearts are resourceful. We reconnected later on the CB radio: he was Tigger, I was Pooh. That friendship—rooted in innocent love and childlike wonder—never truly disappeared.
In middle school, our paths crossed again, and this time, we “dated.” I’ll never forget him riding his bicycle 30 miles just to visit me. It felt like a grand gesture from a fairytale. We danced together at a hometown school dance, the kind of memory that lives in soft lighting and slow songs. Eventually, I moved back—but life had shifted, and so had we. Time created distance, but never erasure.
We are still really good friends to this day.
That first crush didn’t light a lifelong flame, but it taught me how deeply I could feel. It wasn’t just about being liked—it was about connection, discovery, and the simple magic of childhood affection.
First crushes are fleeting, yes—but they linger as reminders of who we were when love was still uncomplicated, when showing someone you liked them meant sharing your last piece of gum or holding hands under a tree.
And maybe that’s why they stay with us—not because of what came after, but because they were the first sparks to show us what it means to open our hearts.
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