“Hi Ryan, I’m John. Can you help me revise a Chinese apology letter I wrote to my girlfriend’s mom? This is my first relationship. I really want to make it right. I don’t want to lose her.” His voice cracked a little. He’d never studied Chinese, but here he was, carefully translating a letter into his girlfriend’s mother’s language, because she didn’t speak English. She was upset that he kept her daughter away too often, cutting into their rare time together. And so, he wrote in Chinese. Awkward, but heartfelt. When I read his letter, I could feel how long it must have taken him. I could feel how much he cared.

Carlton emailed me once, saying: “There’s a lot of pressure. My mom wants me to find an ABC girl, someone who understands our culture. Someone who’ll fit. She says it’ll make life easier.” He’s quietly crushing on a girl in his class, but he feels like there’s no chance. “Too many other guys,” he says. “Too many better ones.”

Peter, one of my closest friends from college, had to let go of his first love, not because he wanted to, but because his Korean mother couldn’t accept that she was Japanese. “They were both amazing people,” he told me. “But I couldn’t fight history. Not that kind of history.”

And then there’s Wayne, the one who got lucky. He’s about to get married. His fiancée is a nurse at his clinic, smart, kind, and capable. “She planned the whole wedding,” he told me, grinning. “The house, the furniture, the honeymoon. I’m just trying to show up on time.” His first love. His forever. Some people get that. Most of us don’t.

Love is strange. Mysterious. It makes you bold. It makes you quiet. It makes you feel like you’ve found everything until it’s gone. For many ABC youths, first love doesn’t end in marriage. It ends in confusion, pressure and cultural silence. It ends in words never said or said too late. Still, we don’t forget. Because first love is the beginning of who we become.

I’ve been asked questions about love more times than I can count. Maybe it’s because I had my first relationship in high school. Maybe it’s because my Chinese is fluent, and I understand the space between cultures. Maybe it’s because I listen. But every time someone asks me how to fix a broken relationship, how to say sorry, or hold on, or win someone back, it wakes something inside me. Something I haven’t touched in years.

Because once, long ago…

She was my classmate. Jackie was the kind of girl everyone liked. Beautiful, bright, and kind or a school “goddess.” Naturally, she was surrounded, admired, pursued. And yet, she stayed grounded. She treated everyone kindly.

I was shy. I liked her, but I kept my distance. Which only made me notice her more.

And then she disappeared. No warning. No announcement. She stopped coming to school, and just as quickly, people stopped talking about her.

But I couldn’t let it go. Eventually, I found out the truth. Her father, the person she loved most, had passed away unexpectedly. I went to find her. She didn’t talk much. She looked like she’d never feel joy again. So, I stayed. And we made things. She liked crafts: paper, wood, thread. We made quiet things in memory of her father. And slowly, she returned. And when she came back to school, I walked beside her. And after that… it was just us.

We were both accepted to top universities, and we chose Princeton together. But something changed. She joined many clubs, met new people, and was constantly surrounded. I wanted quiet moments. Two-person moments. The more I held on, the more she pulled away. She felt trapped. I felt erased. By the end of college, we were speaking less and less. Still connected, but in a silent, painful way.

Then, one day, just before graduation, she came to me. “We’re about to graduate. You don’t need to check on me anymore. Thank you for being there when I needed someone most. I’ll always remember what we had.”

And just like that, we were done.

All these years later, I still think about her. Not in a romantic way - not anymore. Just with quiet gratitude. And a trace of sadness I never quite shook off.

If I could say something to John now, that boy writing apology letters, hoping for one more chance, I’d say this:
You’ve already said what matters.
And if she stays, you’ll grow together.
But if she leaves…
You’ll still grow.

Tomorrow will come. And it will become beautiful in ways you haven’t imagined yet.
Even heartbreak can be part of your best arrangement.