The new student in my class handed me a Valentine’s card that I had crafted long ago for my first love.

I was living my ordinary life until one of my students gave me a Valentine. It looked familiar, and when I unfolded it, my heart stopped. It was the card I had written years ago for someone I once loved. I had to know how it ended up in his hands—even if it changed everything.

Everyone thinks being an elementary school teacher is the easiest job, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I wonder, college professors, have you ever had to get slime out of hair while the guilty party giggles in the corner? Have you ever tried to scrub permanent marker off a wall?

Or rushed a rug to the dry cleaner because a student didn’t make it to the bathroom in time? I don’t think so. For me, that was just part of the job.

Still, I loved my work. Kids had a way of making even the most exhausting days feel rewarding.

But sometimes, I swear, I was teaching tiny tornadoes disguised as children.

Chaos followed them everywhere. However, there were students like Mark.

Mark was different. He was the kind of child people called a real angel. He was quiet but not shy, polite but not stiff, always kind.

And, to my surprise, often brought me little gifts—a drawing, a flower he’d found, even a neatly folded napkin he thought looked like a swan.

He had only been in my class for a month, and I could tell he was still adjusting.

Many kids hadn’t fully accepted him yet, and I found myself stepping in when they left him out. But Mark never seemed upset.

“I just feel sorry for them,” he told me once. “They don’t know how to be nice.” See? A real angel.

During breaks, he’d come up just to talk. He told me his family had moved a lot—different cities, different countries.

His dad was a journalist, and now, finally, they were staying here. I often wondered who had raised such a wonderful child.

But since his nanny always picked him up, I never had the chance to find out.

On Valentine’s Day, Mark walked up to my desk, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

His small hands clutched something behind his back. His eyes darted up at me, then back down.

“I wanted to give you a Valentine,” he said. His voice was soft.

“For me?” I asked.

He nodded. “You’re a great teacher.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mark. Thank you.”

He gave a quick nod, then turned as if to walk away.

“Wait,” I said. “Where’s the Valentine?”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Oh!” He pulled a small card from behind his back and placed it on my desk, almost dropping it in the process.

I picked it up. Something about it felt familiar. I unfolded it.

“To the funniest and smartest boy I know. Don’t you dare forget me. Yours, Annie.”

My breath caught. My hands tightened around the paper. I knew this handwriting. My handwriting.

“Mark, where did you get this?”

“In my dad’s stuff,” he said. “It even has your name on it. Do you like it?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mark. I love it.”

He hugged me, then ran off, leaving me frozen. Had he really kept it after all these years?

Memories crashed over me, pulling me back to a time I thought I had left behind. Jason.

My first love. My only real love. Even now, saying that felt ridiculous, like something out of an old romance novel. But it was true.

We had spent high school dreaming together, mapping out a future that felt certain.

College, careers, a life side by side. Nothing could touch us. Nothing could break us.

Until one day, Jason walked into the school hallway looking like his whole world had shattered.

“We’re moving to Europe,” he said, his voice cracking. “My dad got a job offer there.”

He didn’t even try to hold back the tears. He just collapsed into my arms, his body shaking.

I held him as tightly as I could, trying to breathe through the lump in my throat.

“Jason, no,” I whispered, though I already knew there was nothing I could do.

Our last day together was Valentine’s Day. I gave him that card, the one Mark had handed me. I watched him read it, his eyes glassy.

“Even if I wanted to, I could