Everything I did to have you

They say the beginning of love is a moment, just a moment, where something clicks in your chest, and you know deep in your soul: this person is going to mean something.

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‎I don’t remember what I wore that day.

‎I don’t remember what I said, or what song was playing on the car ride home.

‎But I remember him.

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‎The way he stood in the sun, lazy and golden.

‎The way my brother laughed when they greeted each other.

‎The sound of his voice.

‎The exact moment he looked at me and smiled, not because he knew who I was, but because he was being polite.

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‎And in that moment, at just fourteen years old, I decided, this is the person I want.

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‎Forever.

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‎It happened on a Saturday.

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‎I was only there because my brother bribed me with fries. He was supposed to meet an old friend at the park, someone he hadn’t seen since high school and he didn’t want to look like he was loitering alone. I tagged along out of boredom. I remember dragging my feet behind him, chewing gum, scrolling through my phone, not paying attention to anything, until I heard him say:

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‎“Yo! Look who it is!”

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‎My brother sped up. He raised his arm for a high-five and leaned in for one of those guy-hugs that always looked more like shoulder tackles. I didn’t think much of it. I kept looking down at my phone, until I heard the other voice.

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‎Low. Casual. Kinda playful.

‎"Man, it’s been too long."

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‎When I looked up… there he was.

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‎He was beautiful.

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‎Not in the way magazines showed beauty, he wasn’t all sculpted jawlines or six-pack arrogance. He had a calm kind of charm, the type that makes you do double takes. Hair messy in a way that couldn’t have been accidental. A face that didn’t smile wide, but when he did smile, it felt like watching the sun stretch across the sky.

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‎He was wearing black joggers, an old university t-shirt with faded letters, and had a leash in his hand, a quiet brown dog sitting obediently by his feet.

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‎I remember standing still. Not moving. Not blinking.

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‎I remember thinking: Oh no.

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‎It wasn’t a crush. It was something much scarier.

‎It was clarity.

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‎“This is my little sister,” my brother said.

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‎He turned toward me and gestured lazily with his thumb.

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‎“Hey,” the beautiful boy said.

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‎His eyes landed on mine.

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‎It was a short glance. Not romantic. Not loaded with any kind of spark. Just polite.

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‎“Hi,” I replied.

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‎I said it too quietly. I smiled like a fool.

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‎He didn’t notice. He went back to chatting with my brother like I was background noise. But I wasn’t listening anymore. My ears rang. My throat went dry. I felt like I’d been thrown into some weird alternate reality where I just knew the entire trajectory of my life had shifted by three degrees.

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‎They stood there talking for about ten minutes. I stood behind them, quiet, smiling too hard whenever he glanced back in my direction. I watched how he spoke with his hands. I memorized the curve of his laugh. I watched how he bent slightly to check on the dog every few minutes, scratching behind its ear, cooing softly.

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‎When my brother said, “Hey, let us walk you home,” my heart slammed.

‎YES.

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‎I didn’t say it out loud. I just followed, silent and calculating. The entire walk was a blur of “act normal” and “don’t stare.” I caught his street name when he pointed out the turn. I stared at the number on his door as he unlocked it. I memorized the shape of the welcome mat, the color of the mailbox, the dent in his front gate.

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‎That night, I opened Instagram.

‎Typed his first and last name into the search bar.

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‎Found him instantly.

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‎I was amazed by how easy it was, how willingly people left their whole lives online. I scrolled through his photos like a girl possessed. Found his graduation pictures. Old vacation selfies. One post from last year where he was kissing a girl who clearly wasn’t around anymore.

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‎Her name was tagged. I clicked on her page too. She was pretty. Blonde. Wore short dresses and posted captions like “I’m not a snack, I’m the full meal.” I didn’t hate her. I studied her.

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‎Every girl he’d ever liked, I would know.

‎Every ex, every habit, every song lyric he’d posted with a broken heart emoji, I devoured it like I was reading his diary.

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‎By midnight, I had:

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‎Followed his main account

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‎Bookmarked three photos of him smiling

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‎Searched his Facebook (found his mom and younger brother through tagged family pictures)

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‎Written his street address down in a note on my phone

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‎Taken a screenshot of him holding his dog

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‎And by 2 a.m., I was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, heart racing, not from guilt, not from fear… but from hope.

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‎The next morning, I started building a plan.

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‎To be continued in Part 2...