first love

By ragona

Back in middle school, I believed nothing in the world could be more thrilling than games. Especially back then, when MapleStory was at its peak. I’d sprint home from school, drop my bag, and jump onto the computer, playing party quests until late at night. That was when I met him — the older guy from Seoul (a tall, effortlessly handsome man in his early twenties, sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, the kind of look that would make anyone turn their head). I was just a 14-year-old girl (short, slightly wavy bob haircut, with a fresh, innocent face that people often said was “pretty and cute”), just starting to explore the world outside my small town. At first, I thought he was just another party member. Nothing more, nothing less. But the first time I saw his profile picture, my heart stopped. He was so good-looking that it didn’t feel real, like a celebrity photo stolen from somewhere online. We started talking on TokOn every day while we played. His voice — deep, husky, and smooth — had a way of lingering in my mind. Sometimes, he’d hum a song mid-game, and even that made my heart flutter in ways I couldn’t explain at the time. Back then, I didn’t know how to deal with those feelings. Still, I logged in every single day — whether at home or in the buzzing PC café — just to hear his voice and see his character waiting for me in the game lobby. One evening, I gathered all my courage and typed, “I… I like you, oppa.” There was a pause, and then his quiet laugh came through the mic. “You’re cute,” he said, his tone warm but distant. “But you’re still just a kid.” It stung — more than I expected — but deep down, I knew he was right. I was too young, too far away from the world he lived in. And even though the physical distance between Seoul and my town wasn’t huge, the emotional gap felt like an ocean. Eventually, we stopped talking as often, and then… we stopped entirely. By high school, I was drowning in exam prep and late-night study sessions. But one random night, logging into the game for the first time in months, there he was. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. We laughed, we teased, we played until sunrise. But reality crept in again. He got busier; I got busier. And just like before, we drifted apart. When I turned twenty-one, a message popped up on my phone. “How have you been?” My heart skipped. I thought I’d forgotten, but the rush of emotions came back, sharp and sweet. This time, it wasn’t MapleStory. It was PUBG. And just like before, he was amazing — quick reflexes, sharp strategies, always calm even in chaos. His voice, deeper now, sent shivers down my spine when he laughed or called my name during a match. We spent hours, sometimes entire nights, talking and playing. For a moment, it was like we’d rewound time. But life was different now. I had a boyfriend. And so, I pushed those feelings down, smiling and pretending it was nothing, even when my chest tightened with every call. Eventually, without words, we faded away again. At twenty-five, I moved to Seoul. I shared a small apartment with a friend, the city lights so different from the quiet streets I grew up in. One night, lying in bed, his name popped into my mind. I hesitated for days before finally sending a message. “Hey… I’m in Seoul now.” The reply came quickly. “Really? Then let’s meet up.” Ten years. Ten years since I’d first met him. The day we met, it was surreal. At a gaming café in Gangnam, there he was — the same man, now in his late twenties, tall, lean, with the kind of face that looked straight out of a magazine cover. I almost forgot how to breathe. “Wow,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve grown up so much.” And just like that, ten years of memories came flooding back. We played side by side, our laughter echoing through the neon-lit room. Afterward, we grabbed drinks, sharing stories — old memories, new dreams. The hours slipped by unnoticed. Walking home that night, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline, I felt something strange. A hollow ache, quiet but heavy. Because deep down, I knew. This was never really love. It was admiration — pure, innocent, untouchable. He was still the same man I once looked up to, but now I finally understood: he was never meant to be mine. Now, at twenty-nine, I look back with a quiet smile. There’s someone else beside me now, someone I’ll marry. Sometimes, when memories sneak in — a laugh, a voice, the way the old game loading screen looked — I let myself linger there for a second before moving on. Goodbye, my childhood game friend. You were my first flutter, my quiet daydream, and a beautiful chapter of my youth. Maybe it was because of you — because of that innocent, fleeting excitement — that I grew into the person I am today.

Story Content

Back in middle school, I believed nothing in the world could be more thrilling than games. Especially back then, when MapleStory was at its peak. I’d sprint home from school, drop my bag, and jump onto the computer, playing party quests until late at night. That was when I met him — the older guy from Seoul (a tall, effortlessly handsome man in his early twenties, sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, the kind of look that would make anyone turn their head). I was just a 14-year-old girl (short, slightly wavy bob haircut, with a fresh, innocent face that people often said was “pretty and cute”), just starting to explore the world outside my small town. At first, I thought he was just another party member. Nothing more, nothing less. But the first time I saw his profile picture, my heart stopped. He was so good-looking that it didn’t feel real, like a celebrity photo stolen from somewhere online. We started talking on TokOn every day while we played. His voice — deep, husky, and smooth — had a way of lingering in my mind. Sometimes, he’d hum a song mid-game, and even that made my heart flutter in ways I couldn’t explain at the time. Back then, I didn’t know how to deal with those feelings. Still, I logged in every single day — whether at home or in the buzzing PC café — just to hear his voice and see his character waiting for me in the game lobby. One evening, I gathered all my courage and typed, “I… I like you, oppa.” There was a pause, and then his quiet laugh came through the mic. “You’re cute,” he said, his tone warm but distant. “But you’re still just a kid.” It stung — more than I expected — but deep down, I knew he was right. I was too young, too far away from the world he lived in. And even though the physical distance between Seoul and my town wasn’t huge, the emotional gap felt like an ocean. Eventually, we stopped talking as often, and then… we stopped entirely. By high school, I was drowning in exam prep and late-night study sessions. But one random night, logging into the game for the first time in months, there he was. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. We laughed, we teased, we played until sunrise. But reality crept in again. He got busier; I got busier. And just like before, we drifted apart. When I turned twenty-one, a message popped up on my phone. “How have you been?” My heart skipped. I thought I’d forgotten, but the rush of emotions came back, sharp and sweet. This time, it wasn’t MapleStory. It was PUBG. And just like before, he was amazing — quick reflexes, sharp strategies, always calm even in chaos. His voice, deeper now, sent shivers down my spine when he laughed or called my name during a match. One evening, I gathered all my courage and typed, “I… I like you, oppa.” There was a pause, and then his quiet laugh came through the mic. “You’re cute,” he said, his tone warm but distant. “But you’re still just a kid.” It stung — more than I expected — but deep down, I knew he was right. I was too young, too far away from the world he lived in. And even though the physical distance between Seoul and my town wasn’t huge, the emotional gap felt like an ocean. Eventually, we stopped talking as often, and then… we stopped entirely. By high school, I was drowning in exam prep and late-night study sessions. But one random night, logging into the game for the first time in months, there he was. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. We laughed, we teased, we played until sunrise. But reality crept in again. He got busier; I got busier. And just like before, we drifted apart. When I turned twenty-one, a message popped up on my phone. “How have you been?” My heart skipped. I thought I’d forgotten, but the rush of emotions came back, sharp and sweet. This time, it wasn’t MapleStory. It was PUBG. And just like before, he was amazing — quick reflexes, sharp strategies, always calm even in chaos. His voice, deeper now, sent shivers down my spine when he laughed or called my name during a match. We spent hours, sometimes entire nights, talking and playing. For a moment, it was like we’d rewound time. But life was different now. I had a boyfriend. And so, I pushed those feelings down, smiling and pretending it was nothing, even when my chest tightened with every call. Eventually, without words, we faded away again. At twenty-five, I moved to Seoul. I shared a small apartment with a friend, the city lights so different from the quiet streets I grew up in. One night, lying in bed, his name popped into my mind. I hesitated for days before finally sending a message. “Hey… I’m in Seoul now.” The reply came quickly. “Really? Then let’s meet up.” Ten years. Ten years since I’d first met him. The day we met, it was surreal. At a gaming café in Gangnam, there he was — the same man, now in his late twenties, tall, lean, with the kind of face that looked straight out of a magazine cover. I almost forgot how to breathe. “Wow,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve grown up so much.” And just like that, ten years of memories came flooding back. We played side by side, our laughter echoing through the neon-lit room. Afterward, we grabbed drinks, sharing stories — old memories, new dreams. The hours slipped by unnoticed. Walking home that night, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline, I felt something strange. A hollow ache, quiet but heavy. Because deep down, I knew. This was never really love. It was admiration — pure, innocent, untouchable. He was still the same man I once looked up to, but now I finally understood: he was never meant to be mine. Now, at twenty-nine, I look back with a quiet smile. There’s someone else beside me now, someone I’ll marry. Sometimes, when memories sneak in — a laugh, a voice, the way the old game loading screen looked — I let myself linger there for a second before moving on. Goodbye, my childhood game friend. You were my first flutter, my quiet daydream, and a beautiful chapter of my youth. Maybe it was because of you — because of that innocent, fleeting excitement — that I grew into the person I am today.

first love

first love

ragona

One evening, I gathered all my courage and typed, “I… I like you, oppa.” There was a pause, and then his quiet laugh came through the mic. “You’re cute,” he said, his tone warm but distant. “But you’re still just a kid.” It stung — more than I expected — but deep down, I knew he was right. I was too young, too far away from the world he lived in. And even though the physical distance between Seoul and my town wasn’t huge, the emotional gap felt like an ocean. Eventually, we stopped talking as often, and then… we stopped entirely. By high school, I was drowning in exam prep and late-night study sessions. But one random night, logging into the game for the first time in months, there he was. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. We laughed, we teased, we played until sunrise. But reality crept in again. He got busier; I got busier. And just like before, we drifted apart. When I turned twenty-one, a message popped up on my phone. “How have you been?” My heart skipped. I thought I’d forgotten, but the rush of emotions came back, sharp and sweet. This time, it wasn’t MapleStory. It was PUBG. And just like before, he was amazing — quick reflexes, sharp strategies, always calm even in chaos. His voice, deeper now, sent shivers down my spine when he laughed or called my name during a match.

We spent hours, sometimes entire nights, talking and playing. For a moment, it was like we’d rewound time. But life was different now. I had a boyfriend. And so, I pushed those feelings down, smiling and pretending it was nothing, even when my chest tightened with every call. Eventually, without words, we faded away again. At twenty-five, I moved to Seoul. I shared a small apartment with a friend, the city lights so different from the quiet streets I grew up in. One night, lying in bed, his name popped into my mind. I hesitated for days before finally sending a message. “Hey… I’m in Seoul now.” The reply came quickly. “Really? Then let’s meet up.” Ten years. Ten years since I’d first met him. The day we met, it was surreal. At a gaming café in Gangnam, there he was — the same man, now in his late twenties, tall, lean, with the kind of face that looked straight out of a magazine cover. I almost forgot how to breathe. “Wow,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve grown up so much.” And just like that, ten years of memories came flooding back. We played side by side, our laughter echoing through the neon-lit room. Afterward, we grabbed drinks, sharing stories — old memories, new dreams. The hours slipped by unnoticed. Walking home that night, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline, I felt something strange. A hollow ache, quiet but heavy. Because deep down, I knew.

This was never really love. It was admiration — pure, innocent, untouchable. He was still the same man I once looked up to, but now I finally understood: he was never meant to be mine. Now, at twenty-nine, I look back with a quiet smile. There’s someone else beside me now, someone I’ll marry. Sometimes, when memories sneak in — a laugh, a voice, the way the old game loading screen looked — I let myself linger there for a second before moving on. Goodbye, my childhood game friend. You were my first flutter, my quiet daydream, and a beautiful chapter of my youth. Maybe it was because of you — because of that innocent, fleeting excitement — that I grew into the person I am today.