At 18, on my very first day of college, I encountered the man who I believed would be my future husband. My roommate introduced us with a bright smile: “This is the guy I was telling you about,” she said, gesturing to him. I remember looking up at a six-foot-four figure with dark hair and striking eyes that twinkled as he smiled. He bore a striking resemblance to a young Tom Cruise — and not in a bad way.
“Hey,” I said, a little starstruck.
After that fateful introduction, we became inseparable: Elizabeth and Max, or as our friends jokingly called us, Smiff and Biff. We spent that evening playing poker in my dorm room, much to the chagrin of my Baptist roommate. We splashed around in fountains, shared endless laughter, and when the giggles subsided, I entrusted him with my deepest secrets. He listened without flinching, cradling my fears in his hands, just as he held me through my tears. Our love was youthful and exhilarating, but it ran deeper than mere infatuation. We were too alike, too connected, too intertwined. Our love was something I struggle to put into words.
Everyone around us recognized that Max was the one I was destined to marry. Our families sensed it, and friends couldn’t help but notice.
I lost my virginity to him one quiet December night, the dorm eerily empty before Christmas. It was a perfect moment. When I left for winter break, I couldn’t hold back the tears.
On Valentine’s Day, I went above and beyond. I bought him gifts, but I also sneaked around campus, chalking “Elizabeth Loves Max” all over the place, ensuring thousands would see it. He surprised me with my first pair of diamond earrings, and we dove into discussions about baby names: a boy would carry his full name as a third, while a girl would be named Elizabeth Bretney after our favorite Hemingway character.
We lived together over the summer, and when he had a minor procedure, there was an unspoken expectation that I would care for him. His mother even pointed out the family heirloom we could use for an engagement ring, despite us being only 19.
And then, out of nowhere, he was gone.
I could recount every harrowing moment, each heartbreaking image — the sterile hospital tiles, the sound of machines, and my tears blurring my vision. I’ll summarize: on August 24, 2000, Max slipped into a coma, and after two weeks, he passed away on September 7th.
People assumed I’d crumble, but instead, I shattered. I never fully pieced myself back together. While others worried for me in that first year, their concern waned. I was left grappling with a loss that felt insurmountable, like Alice lost in a dark Wonderland. To them, he was just a boyfriend, and they expected me to move on. I carried this invisible weight, and I was told to calm down.
With Max gone, my world shattered. My future evaporated as the church bells tolled noon on a seemingly ordinary Tuesday. I tried dating again, mostly seeking physical connection, and none of my partners could comprehend my grief. I was like a widow at 19, and my mother even advised me, “You need to move on. No one will want you if you linger in the past.” I still found myself choking up at random moments; even seeing someone in a coma could trigger the floodgates.
As the years passed, I became the girl everyone whispered about — the one who couldn’t let go of her deceased boyfriend.
Now, it’s been 19 years. His name hardly comes up anymore.
Max died at 19, and as time marches on, there will come a day when he has been gone longer than he was alive.
My husband is aware of my history, but he can’t truly grasp it. How could I share that part of me? How could I tell him that there’s a piece of my heart that aches for someone who isn’t him? Sometimes, when I gaze at our children, the realization that they are not Max’s leaves me breathless. I’ve even hidden his picture away.
I long to articulate my loss, but it often feels futile. People hear that I lost my boyfriend at 19 — not the man I was supposed to marry, not the love of my life. They don’t understand the depth of that loss. My friend Daniel, who met his soulmate at seventeen, understands this truth. Even though his husband is still by his side, he knows what it feels like to make an irrevocable choice: “I choose you.”
The pain of this loss is compounded by the lack of acknowledgment — it feels almost shameful, a hidden sorrow. My husband often forgets that I get upset around this time of year or why I can’t bear to see someone in a coma. I want to scream: the man I was going to marry is gone! None of you truly understand unless you have experienced a similar loss. Don’t diminish my grief by saying I was too young to know what it meant. Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt every single day. Don’t insist I should have moved on by now or that time heals all wounds. Yes, I love my husband wholeheartedly, but love is not a competition. You can love two people for different reasons, and the loss of one doesn’t negate the love for another.
Max’s sister, Lily, gets it. We crossed paths recently, and as we chatted in a tattoo parlor, I noticed her wedding ring — a family heirloom. “Lily,” I said, my voice shaky, “that was meant to be my engagement ring.”
She looked down at it. “Yeah,” she replied softly. “I guess it was.”
In that moment, we both grieved, knowing that the man I was meant to marry was gone. Nineteen years later, the ache remains.
I wish someone would truly understand that.
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Summary
The author reflects on the profound loss of her first love, Max, who passed away at a young age. Despite moving on with her life and marrying someone else, the ache of that early love and loss persists, often misunderstood by those around her. She struggles to reconcile her past with her present, emphasizing that grief can last a lifetime, regardless of age.
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