When I was just 18, on my very first day of college, I met the man I believed I would marry. My roommate introduced us, saying, “This is the guy I’ve been telling you about.” I remember looking up at him, this tall figure with deep, dark hair and strikingly beautiful eyes that sparkled with warmth. He bore a striking resemblance to a young Tom Cruise — in the best possible way.
“Hi,” I greeted him, feeling a spark.
“Hey,” he replied, and from that moment, we were inseparable, often referred to as “Liz and Jake” or “Biff and Smiff” by our friends. We spent that first night playing poker on the floor of my dorm room, much to the dismay of my conservative roommate. We splashed in fountains and filled our days with laughter. During quiet moments, I shared my deepest secrets with him, the ones I had never told anyone else, and he held them gently, offering comfort as I cried. Our love was intense and passionate, unlike anything I had ever known, yet it felt deeper, more profound — as if we were meant to be together.
Everyone around us recognized that he was the one I would marry. Our families saw it, our friends felt it; it was an undeniable truth.
In December, on a night that felt ordinary, I lost my virginity to the man I was destined to marry. The dorm was quiet, the world outside still. It felt perfect. I cried when I left for the holidays.
On Valentine’s Day, I showered him with gifts and went to great lengths to leave chalk messages like “Liz Loves Jake” all over campus, ensuring everyone saw it. He gifted me my first pair of diamond earrings. We even discussed potential baby names, planning a future together — his name for our son, and Elizabeth Marie for our daughter, whom we’d call Lizzy after our favorite character from a book we loved.
We spent a summer living together, and when he underwent a minor surgery, it was assumed by everyone that I would be there to care for him. We were committed in sickness and in health, or so we thought.
His mother had even selected a family heirloom engagement ring for us. But then tragedy struck.
I could recount every agonizing detail of that time: the sterile hospital floors, the sound of machines beeping, the tears I shed. Smith fell into a coma on August 24, 2000, and after two weeks, he passed away on September 7.
Everyone expected me to crumble, but instead, I shattered. I couldn’t piece myself back together. While others worried about me during the first year, their concern faded, but I remained in a dark place. It felt like I had plunged down a rabbit hole into a bewildering Wonderland. To them, my boyfriend had died, and life had to go on. I was left dragging my grief behind me, needing to calm down.
My world collapsed the moment Smith was gone; my future vanished as if erased. I tried dating again, but it was a desperate attempt to fill a void that no one else could. None of my partners understood my profound loss. They stood bewildered as I navigated this grief that consumed me. I felt like a widow at 19, 20, and 21. My mother even told me to move on, warning that no man would want me if I clung to the past. I often became overwhelmed by memories; even seeing someone in a coma could send me spiraling.
As the years passed, I became the girl who couldn’t let go of her deceased boyfriend. People whispered about me as if I were a tragic character in a story — “Oh, her. She just can’t move on.”
Now, almost two decades later, no one speaks of him anymore. The man I was meant to marry died at just 19. Soon, there will come a sad day when he has been gone longer than he lived.
My current husband is aware of my past, but he doesn’t truly understand. It’s hard to express this kind of love without hurting the one I’m with. I adore my husband deeply, but there are days when the absence of Smith is palpable. I often find myself on my knees, grappling with the realization that our children are not his.
People don’t grasp the magnitude of my loss. They dismiss it as teenage infatuation, but it was so much more. My friend Mark met his soulmate at a young age too; he gets it. They’re still together, and our conversations provide comfort. Even though his partner is still alive, he understands the certainty that comes with young love.
This hidden pain is compounded by a lack of acknowledgment from others. They assume my age minimized my experience. My husband can forget why I feel anger or sadness at certain times of the year or why I react strongly to comas. I want to scream sometimes: the man I was meant to marry passed away. No one truly understands unless they’ve faced a similar loss. Don’t tell me my age made it insignificant. Don’t minimize my feelings. Don’t tell me it shouldn’t hurt this much, or that I should have moved on by now. Love doesn’t work that way; it’s not a zero-sum game.
Jake’s sister understands my pain. We occasionally meet, and one day, while sitting in a tattoo parlor, I noticed her wedding ring and told her how that was meant to be my engagement ring. She quietly acknowledged it, and we both felt the weight of our shared loss — her brother was gone, and so was the man I was meant to marry. Nearly 20 years later, the ache remains.
I wish someone would truly grasp that.
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Summary
The author reflects on the profound loss of the man she was meant to marry, who died tragically at a young age. Despite the passage of time, the pain of that loss lingers, and she grapples with feelings of inadequacy and misunderstanding from those around her. The piece delves into the complexities of love, grief, and the challenge of moving forward while still holding onto past emotions.