I first uttered it to a boy in tenth grade. It was a response, almost automatic. “I love you too.” I thought it meant nothing, because nothing in the relationship had changed. It wasn't until we broke up that I understood the significance.

He resentfully started throwing questions and accusations at me. Why would I say I loved him if I didn't mean it? Was I only setting him up for heartbreak? I immediately regretted saying it. How was I supposed to know? I love pizza, my parents, my friends, my cat. How is that love any different?

But apparently it was supposed to be. After all, Juliet knew she loved Romeo after a glance, and she was only 13. I was older than that, therefore I must be wiser. Surely I know when I'm in love. I mean, I felt different with him. He made me happy and optimistic. Is that what love is? I had always envisioned, like in a romantic-comedy scenario, that one day I'd wake up and just know. I wanted to find that kind of love.

Four months later, my boyfriend and I got back together. We're the typical teenage on-off relationship cliché. Since then I decided that I did love him, still do, and probably always will. It's not the love-of-my-life, I-need-to-be-with-you-every-moment, Nicholas-Sparks-novel love, but my own brand of love. When I say “I love you,” it's a promise. A promise that I will love him to the best of my ability and trust him not to take advantage of that.

We probably won't be together forever. We probably won't even make it through college. But he's my first love. And I don't regret a word.