Jamie was two years older than me.

He once told me I was his first serious relationship.

Before me, he had only liked a girl from his hometown. It was nothing more than a crush. Nothing had ever happened between them.

In other words, neither of us had much experience in love.

Because of that, we discovered many things together.

Even now, when I think about those firsts, I still smile.

Our first date.

Our first movie.

Our first time holding hands in public.

Our first kiss, which was so clumsy that I almost laughed against his mouth.

And later, our first night together.

We were both nervous. Neither of us knew what we were doing. We spent nearly two hours fumbling, whispering, stopping, starting again, and pretending we were much calmer than we actually were.

Afterwards, Jamie held me tightly in his arms.

His face was still red, but his voice was very serious.

“Queenie,” he said, “I’ll always treat you as my dearest.”

Those two years were the happiest years of our lives.

At least, that was what I believed.

Jamie almost never said no to me.

Because of him, I slowly became more and more wilful. Back then, even the air felt sweet. I was so sure of his love that I began to test it without realising.

Sometimes, I would pick a fight over the smallest things.

A late reply.

A forgotten snack.

One careless sentence.

But Jamie never truly lost patience with me. No matter how unreasonable I was, he would apologise again and again until I finally softened.

His friends often teased him.

“You can’t spoil your girl like that. She’ll keep pushing your limits.”

Jamie would only smile.

“I’ll treat her like my queen. No regrets.”

Back then, I thought love meant someone would always choose me first.

Always lower his head first.

Always come back first.

Now, the person who once loved me like that was getting married to someone else.