my first love

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, slam my bag down, and turn on the computer, playing party quests until late at night. And then, one day, he appeared. A guy from Seoul — five years older than me. At first, I thought he was just another party member, nothing special. But when I saw his profile picture, I froze. He was ridiculously handsome, like someone who had stepped right out of a magazine. Those sharp eyes, that clean smile… It was surreal, almost like meeting someone from another world. We started talking on TokOn every day while we played. His voice was deep and husky, the kind that lingered in your mind. Sometimes, he’d hum a song, and even that made my heart flutter. I was just a kid, too shy to confess what I felt, so I simply logged in every day — at home, at the PC café — just to spend time with him. But one day, I blurted it out. “I… I like you, oppa.” He chuckled softly, his tone calm but distant. “You’re cute. But you’re still just a kid.” It stung, but I understood. I was just a kid. And even though we didn’t live that far apart, I didn’t have the courage to see him in person. So, slowly, we drifted apart.

Years passed, and I buried myself in schoolwork. Then one random day in high school, we ran into each other again in the game. For a brief moment, it felt like the old days — laughter, late-night calls, inside jokes — but life got in the way again, and the connection faded. By the time I turned twenty-one, a message popped up. “How have you been?” My heart skipped a beat. I thought I’d forgotten, but the rush of excitement and nostalgia hit me all at once. This time, it wasn’t MapleStory. It was PUBG. And he was still just as good. Fast, sharp, strategic — and his voice, that same deep voice, still had the power to make me pause mid-sentence. We spent entire days playing, talking, laughing. For a moment, it felt like time had rewound. But reality had changed. I had a boyfriend. So I buried those feelings, smiled through the calls, and when the line went dead, I sat there, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake off the ache in my chest. Eventually, we stopped talking again, no explanations needed. Then came twenty-five. I’d moved to Seoul with a friend, starting a new chapter of my life. One night, lying in bed, his name popped into my mind. I hesitated for days before finally typing out a message. “Hey… I’m in Seoul now.” A reply came almost instantly. “Really? Then let’s meet up.” My heart pounded. Ten years. Ten years since I’d first met him.

The day we met, it felt unreal. At a gaming café in Gangnam, there he was. And God, he looked even better in person. Tall, sharp, almost painfully handsome. Like the “ulzzang” idols from back in the day — only real, standing right there in front of me. “Wow… you’ve grown up so much,” he said, smiling. And just like that, all those buried memories came flooding back. We sat side by side, playing games, drinking together, laughing like we had a decade ago. Time slipped away unnoticed. But on the way home, with my cheeks warm from the drinks, I felt it — that hollowness. Because deep down, I knew. It was never really love. It was admiration. A kind of innocent devotion, like the quiet, one-sided affection of a fan. He was still amazing, but I didn’t need him to be mine anymore. Now, I’m twenty-nine. There’s someone by my side, someone I’ll marry. Sometimes, when I catch myself smiling at the memories of those days, I realize that the boy I once adored isn’t part of my present, but forever a piece of my past. Goodbye, my childhood game friend. You were like my first love, but more than that, you were a chapter of my youth. Maybe it’s because of those memories — that innocent, fleeting excitement — that I became who I am today.