I drove by your house today. I saw the patio and bench we sat on together to roast marshmallows with your little brother. Then he teased us, and we chased him and his friends around the whole neighborhood. Out of breath, the sharpness of winter hit our lungs, and we found our way back to each other. We inched around the corners of your suburban neighborhood, high on adrenaline and newfound interest. I remember the look on your face, the softness of our first kiss. Swift and short, but it still made my hips brace against yours. The naive enchantment of a first romance. The innocence of sitting on your porch, twisting into the fantasies of our futures after high school.

I remember riding shotgun in your car, seeing the sunlight hit your eyelashes, and being jealous of how long they were when they rested on the corners of your eyebrows. I remember the music that we first fell in love to, softly and slowly, resting in the safety of your arms. When you’re a child, you believe in things you later lose faith in. You believe in the importance of first times, of holding hands in the car, of stroking each other’s fingertips while you watch "The Walking Dead." When you’re a child, you believe in magic. My first love made me believe in magic, as I hope everyone’s did. These are things that we let go of, though I wish we didn’t. These are the moments and beliefs that make us human. This is happiness.

As I drove by with the windows down, softly singing along to a John Mayer song, I glanced at my rearview mirror, remembering the way the windows fogged up that one night with you. And I put my handprint on it, hoping you would remember it forever. I draped my legs over yours, biting my lip, curling into your arms. I slowly stroked the center of your chest, twisting the small tufts of hair. We laid there, exposed in our own intimate world. Unbound by adulthood and responsibility. Untethered from pain and remorse. Unaware of how this first could never be recreated again. Because while you fall in love again, you will never fall in love for the first time again. The belief in magic changes -- it becomes a board game of finding the right letters to create the proper nouns.

Perhaps the importance of a first love lies strictly in those who find themselves nostalgic. Maybe it’s all a little over-exaggerated, a tendency to glorify something that no longer exists. Or maybe, just maybe, it's simply remembering a time when you knew nothing but unregistered joy without fear, from a person you found one of a kind. Maybe a first love’s importance not only occurs during the time you spend together but the time after as well. Maybe it prevents people from settling, if you're strong enough to stand up for the passions we become blind to. Maybe it’s used to remind us that magic can still exist. We just have to pursue those who are enchanting.