To the Me Who Just Met Her
Dear Younger Me,
I know you hate surprises. You like things planned, thought out, and clear in your head before they even happen. So, let me be the first to tell you: you're about to meet someone who will change all of that.
You won’t meet in the way you’d expect. It won’t be like a movie where everything slows down, and soft music plays. No, it’ll be loud and unexpected. It’ll be her voice, confident and a little too sure of herself, cutting through the usual high school noise. And you? You’ll be the quiet one in the background, watching, keeping your distance like you always do. You won’t know it yet, but she’ll find a way to close that distance before you can even think about stepping back.
She’s unpredictable. At first, you’ll think she’s a little annoying—too loud, too random, too much. But you’ll also notice how she pulls people in without even trying. You’ll hate how she never follows a plan, how she makes quick decisions without overthinking, yet things always seem to work out for her. And even though she’s everything you’re not, you’ll find yourself drawn to her.
She’ll call you ‘Jules’ like it’s always been your name, and you won’t bother correcting her. She’ll sit next to you at lunch one day, and then somehow, it’ll just become an everyday thing. She’ll talk enough for both of you, filling in the gaps where you don’t know what to say. She’ll make you laugh—real, loud laughter that you’ll try to hide but won’t be able to.
You won’t realize it right away, but she’s going to be important.
And one day, when you least expect it, she’s going to be yours.
But that part comes later. For now, just let her in.
With patience and a little bit of warning,
Julienne "Jules" Alcaraz
Dear Younger Me,
You’re not going to like this next part. You’re going to fight it, maybe even convince yourself it’s not happening. But it is. And it starts with her, of course.
You’ll get used to her being around. At first, it’ll be just lunch, then walking to class together, then staying a little longer after school just because she asked you to. She’ll make herself at home in your space, in your routine, and you won’t mind as much as you think you should.
She’ll push you—out of your comfort zone, out of your carefully built walls. You’ll say no, she’ll hear maybe, and somehow you’ll find yourself doing things you never planned. Like skipping your usual study hour just to sit with her at the bleachers, listening to her talk about things you don’t fully understand but want to. Like laughing at her dumb jokes even when you roll your eyes right after. Like catching yourself looking for her in a crowded hallway, waiting for her voice to break through the noise.
You’ll start to notice the little things. How she always taps her fingers when she’s thinking. How she tilts her head when she listens, like she’s really, truly paying attention. How she says your name differently—like she’s known you forever.
And one day, it’ll hit you.
You like her.
Not in the way you like your friends. Not in the way you’ve been told you’re supposed to like someone. It’ll be terrifying. The weight of it will sit in your chest like a secret you’re too afraid to say out loud. You’ll try to ignore it, push it down, force yourself to act normal. But normal will start to feel like a lie.
You’ll overthink everything. The way your heart stumbles when she looks at you too long. The way your breath catches when her arm brushes against yours. The way her laughter stays in your head long after she’s gone. You’ll convince yourself you’re imagining it, that it’s just admiration, just friendship, just a phase. You’ll tell yourself this can’t be real because if it is, then what does that make you?
You’ll panic. You’ll pull away. You’ll try to be careful, measured, distant. But she’ll pull you right back in, effortlessly, unknowingly. She’ll call your name like she always does, and the world will tilt, just a little, just enough. And in that moment, you’ll know.
You’re going to fall for her, Jules.
And it’s going to be the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
With honesty you’re not ready for yet,
Jules
Dear Younger Me,
This is the part where you realize there’s no turning back.
You’ll fight it, of course. You’ll tell yourself it’s just admiration, just appreciation, just fascination with the way Sam moves so effortlessly through the world. You’ll come up with excuses—Maybe I just want to be like her. Maybe I just admire her confidence. Maybe this is nothing.
But it won’t feel like nothing.
Because every time she drapes herself across your shoulders, every time she catches your eye from across the room with a smirk that says I know what you’re thinking, every time she throws an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world—your stomach will drop, your breath will hitch, and suddenly, nothing will feel simple anymore.
You’ll obsess over every little moment. The brush of her fingers against yours, the way she leans in when she talks to you, the way she remembers the smallest things you say. You’ll spend hours replaying conversations in your head, overanalyzing every smile, every glance, every hesitation in her voice.
And then one day, it’ll hit you like a freight train.
It won’t be dramatic. There won’t be a single moment of realization, no grand epiphany. Just a slow, creeping awareness that settles deep in your chest.
You like her. In the way people write songs about. In the way that makes your heart pound and your hands shake. And no matter how much you try to reason your way out of it, the feeling stays.
You’ll agonize over what to do.
For weeks, you’ll practice what to say, running through a hundred different versions of how it could go. You’ll consider telling her in a casual, offhand way, like it’s not a big deal. You’ll imagine writing it down in a letter, so you don’t have to say the words out loud. You’ll wonder if maybe it’s better to never say anything at all.
Because what if you ruin everything? What if she laughs? What if she says she only ever saw you as a friend? What if she gets uncomfortable, starts pulling away, and this easy, natural thing you have slips through your fingers?
But here’s the thing about feelings, Jules: they have a way of escaping when you least expect them to.
You won’t mean to say it when you do.
It won’t be under the stars, or in some quiet, intimate moment. It’ll happen on a random afternoon, when you’re both sprawled on the floor of her room, flipping through an old notebook of hers. She’ll be teasing you about something—probably how serious you are, how you always have to have a plan. And you’ll roll your eyes, but your heart will be hammering, because you’ll be watching her laugh, and she’ll be so close.
And before you can stop yourself, the words will slip out—soft, uncertain, barely more than a whisper.
"I think I like you."
The second you say it, panic will set in. You’ll wish you could take it back, shove the words back down before they do any damage.
She’ll go still. You’ll brace yourself for the worst. For a laugh, a rejection, an awkward apology. For her to say she never thought of you that way, or worse—that she did, once, but not anymore.
But instead, she’ll just blink at you, stunned for once. Then, a slow, knowing smile will spread across her face. And she’ll say something so perfectly Sam:
"Took you long enough."
And just like that, everything shifts.
With a heart finally set free,
Jules
Dear Younger Me,
This is where it all begins. The firsts. The kind of moments you don’t realize are precious until you’re looking back, tracing the exact second everything changed.
Your first real date won’t be anything grand—not in the way movies make it seem. No candlelit dinner, no city lights twinkling in the background. Just you and Sam sitting on the rooftop of an old convenience store, feet dangling over the edge, passing a bottle of soda back and forth as you eat greasy takeout straight from the bag. And yet, somehow, it’ll feel like the most romantic thing in the world.
You’ll talk about everything and nothing. About your favorite songs, about why she thinks aliens exist, about where she wants to be five years from now—not that she has a real plan, but she’ll spin you a wild dream of traveling the world, chasing the next adventure. She’ll tease you about being too serious, too structured, and you’ll roll your eyes, but she’ll grin at you like you’re her favorite thing to look at.
And maybe that’s when it’ll hit you, all at once.
That this is real. That she is real. That you are sitting across from someone who makes your world feel bigger, brighter, more.
The first time you hold hands as something more than friends, it’ll be electric. Not the dramatic, heart-pounding kind of electricity—more like a slow, steady current running under your skin. You’ll be hyper-aware of everything: the warmth of her palm, the way her thumb absentmindedly brushes against yours, the quiet understanding in the way she doesn’t let go.
You’ll overthink it, of course. You’ll wonder if it means as much to her as it does to you. You’ll analyze every small movement—Is she fidgeting? Does she want to pull away? Should you?
But then, she’ll squeeze your hand, just once. Just enough to say, I’m here. I want this, too. And for the first time in forever, you’ll stop thinking. You’ll just feel.
Your first kiss won’t be perfect.
It won’t be like the scenes you’ve played in your head a hundred times. There won’t be soft music swelling in the background, no perfectly timed moment where everything aligns. It’ll happen in the middle of a conversation, after she says something sarcastic that makes you roll your eyes, and you’ll cut her off mid-sentence.
It’ll be clumsy at first. A little too fast, a little uncoordinated. But then she’ll smile against your lips, laugh a little like she can’t believe it took you this long, and suddenly, it’ll feel like breathing. Easy. Right.
The first fight will catch you off guard.
You’ll think that because you love each other, everything will always be easy. That as long as you choose her, and she chooses you, nothing will ever really hurt. But love doesn’t work that way.
The argument won’t even be about anything big. Just small things piling up—her habit of making last-minute plans when you like to have things scheduled, your tendency to overthink when she just wants to go with the flow. She’ll say you’re too rigid, you’ll say she’s too reckless, and before you know it, there will be raised voices and frustrated sighs, and she’ll storm off before either of you can say something you’ll regret.
You’ll sit alone in your room that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is how things start to fall apart.
But then, hours later, she’ll show up at your door, hands shoved in her pockets, looking just as stubborn and exhausted as you feel. She won’t apologize first—that’s not who she is—but she’ll press a pack of your favorite snacks into your hand, like it’s a peace offering, and she’ll say, This doesn’t mean you were right.
And you’ll laugh, because somehow, she always knows how to break the tension.
That’s when you’ll learn that love isn’t about never fighting. It’s about learning how to fight for each other. How to come back, even when it’s easier to walk away.
The first I love you won’t be planned.
It won’t be a grand confession under the stars, no rehearsed speeches or perfectly timed moment. It’ll slip out in the most ordinary way—while you’re sitting next to each other, watching a stupid movie that neither of you are paying attention to.
She’ll say something ridiculous, something that makes you roll your eyes, and without thinking, you’ll blurt it out:
"God, I love you."
And then you’ll freeze. Because oh my god, you just said it. Out loud. Without meaning to. Without planning.
Your heart will stop. Your stomach will drop.
And she’ll just stare at you for a second, eyes wide.
You’ll panic. You’ll open your mouth to backtrack, to make a joke, to do something—but before you can, she’ll lean in, press a quick kiss to your lips, and whisper, Took you long enough.
And just like that, everything shifts.
Jules, this is the part where love still feels magical. Where everything is new and raw and real. Where every moment feels like the beginning of something bigger.
Hold on to it.
With love that feels like a beginning,
Jules
Dear Younger Me,
You’re going to have a moment, one that sneaks up on you so quietly, so effortlessly, that you won’t even realize it’s happening.
You’ll be sitting across from her, in some hole-in-the-wall café she dragged you to after school. She’ll be rambling about something, maybe her latest obsession, maybe a ridiculous idea she just had and you’ll be listening, nodding at the right moments, pretending to be exasperated when she steals a fry from your plate.
And then, without warning, it will hit you.
I love her.
Not in the tentative, nervous way you first admitted it to yourself. Not in the way you held your breath, wondering if she felt the same. No. This will be different. It will be steady, sure. A knowing that settles deep in your bones.
You will love her in the way you know the sun will rise tomorrow. In the way your heart beats without you telling it to. In the way you already see her in your future, not as a fleeting possibility, but as something certain.
You won’t say it out loud, not then. Instead, you’ll watch the way her hands move when she talks, the way she grins before taking a sip of her drink, the way she looks at you like you are her certainty too.
And in that moment, you’ll believe in forever.
Hold on to this feeling. Memorize it. Because one day, you’ll wonder if you only imagined it—if love was only ever meant to be a moment instead of something that lasts.
But I want you to know this, Jules: It was real. It was yours. And for a while, it was enough.
With all the love you didn’t know how to put into words,
Jules