When someone asks me, “Who was your first kiss?” my mind goes blank. A high school classmate, maybe? Someone I’ve long since forgotten.
When they ask, “Who was your first boyfriend?” I can barely piece together an answer. There’s a hazy outline—a boy who was supposed to be devastatingly handsome, stolen away by my cousin. But I can’t see his face. Can’t recall his name. Can’t remember anything about us. He must have meant nothing to me, I always reasoned. After all, how could I forget someone who truly mattered?
When they ask, “Who was your first love?” I’ve always answered: Fred. The man I met in Monumento, Caloocan in 1999. That’s where my story began—or so I believed.
But I had no idea how much I’d buried. How many memories lay hidden beneath the surface, locked away for three decades. Waiting.
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