I was living an ordinary life, just like any other day, until one of my students handed me a Valentine. At first glance, it seemed like any other card, but when I unfolded it, my heart stopped. The handwriting, the words—they were mine. It was the Valentine I had written years ago for someone I had loved deeply. My hands trembled as I held the card, my mind racing with questions. How had it ended up in his hands? I needed to find out, even if it changed everything.
Most people think being an elementary school teacher is easy, but they have no idea. College professors may lecture in peaceful classrooms, but have they ever had to scrape slime out of a kid’s hair while the culprit giggled nearby? Have they ever spent hours scrubbing permanent marker off the walls or rushed a rug to the dry cleaner because a student didn’t quite make it to the bathroom in time? I doubt it.
For me, that was just part of the job. And despite the chaos, I loved it. Kids had a way of making even the most exhausting days feel rewarding. Still, there were moments when I felt like I was teaching tiny tornadoes disguised as children. They left a trail of mess and mischief wherever they went. But then, there were students like Mark.
Mark was different. He wasn’t the loud, energetic kind. He was quiet, but not shy. He was polite, but never stiff. He was always kind, and that kindness made him stand out. Every so often, he would bring me small gifts—a carefully drawn picture, a flower he found on the way to school, or even a napkin he had folded into what he insisted was a swan.
He had only been in my class for a month, and I could tell he was still adjusting. The other kids hadn’t fully welcomed him yet, and I often had to step in when he was left out. But Mark never seemed sad about it.
“I just feel sorry for them,” he told me one day with a small shrug. “They don’t know how to be nice.”
A real angel, I thought.
Mark often stayed back during breaks to talk to me. He told me about his life, about how his family moved a lot. Different cities, different countries. His dad was a journalist, and finally, after years of moving, they had settled here. I often wondered about his parents, especially the father who had raised such a wonderful child. But since his nanny always picked him up, I never had the chance to meet them.
On Valentine’s Day, Mark approached my desk, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked nervous. His small hands were hiding something behind his back. His eyes flickered up to meet mine, then quickly darted away.
“I wanted to give you a Valentine,” he said softly.
“For me?” I asked, touched by the gesture.
He nodded, his cheeks slightly pink. “You’re a great teacher.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mark. Thank you.”
He nodded again and turned as if to leave, but I stopped him.
“Wait,” I said. “Where’s the Valentine?”
Mark’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh!” He quickly pulled a small card from behind his back and placed it on my desk, nearly dropping it in his haste.
I picked it up, and the moment my fingers touched the paper, a strange sense of familiarity washed over me. I unfolded it carefully, my heart already beginning to race.
“To the funniest and smartest boy I know. Don’t you dare forget me. Yours, Annie.”
I froze. My breath caught in my throat. The handwriting—my handwriting.
“Mark, where did you get this?” My voice came out quieter than I intended.
“In my dad’s stuff,” he said simply. “It even has your name on it. Do you like it?”
I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Yes, Mark. I love it.”
Mark beamed and gave me a quick hug before running off to play, leaving me clutching the card like it was a lifeline. Memories I had buried long ago came rushing back, crashing over me like a wave.
Jason.
My first love. My only real love. Even now, the thought felt surreal, like something out of an old romance novel. But it was true.
We had been inseparable in high school, two kids dreaming about a future that felt certain. College, careers, a life together. We were untouchable. Or so I had thought.
Until the day Jason walked into the school hallway, his face pale, his eyes glassy.
“We’re moving to Europe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “My dad got a job there.”
Tears welled in his eyes, and when he collapsed into my arms, I held him as tightly as I could, as if holding him would keep him from leaving.
“Jason, no,” I whispered, even though I knew there was nothing I could do.
Our last day together was Valentine’s Day. I had given him that card, the one now sitting on my desk. I remembered how he had read it, his hands trembling.
“Even if I wanted to, I could never forget you,” he had said before pulling me into his arms for the last time.
Then, he was gone.
We lost contact over the years, and as far as I knew, he had never returned to our town. Until now. Until Mark handed me that Valentine.
My heart pounded as I opened Mark’s school file. My eyes scanned the page until they landed on his father’s name.
Jason.
This wasn’t a coincidence.
That afternoon, I found myself standing in front of Jason’s house, my hands shaking as I rang the doorbell. The door swung open, and a stunning woman stood before me.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice smooth and polite.
I hesitated. “I’d like to speak with Jason.”
She raised an eyebrow. “He’s not home. What is this about?”
“Are you Mark’s new nanny?” I asked. “I really need to speak with Jason.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. “I’m Katherine. Jason’s wife. Mark’s mother. And you are?”
The words hit me like a slap. Jason’s wife. Of course.
“I’m Miss Annie,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Mark’s teacher.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Is Mark having trouble at school? You can talk to me.”
“Not at all,” I said quickly. “Mark is wonderful. I just wanted to meet his parents.”
“Well, now you have,” she said smoothly.
I forced a polite smile, turned, and walked back to my car. The moment I closed the door, the tears came. What a fool I was. Had I really expected Jason to still be waiting for me?
But just when I thought our story was over, Jason himself walked into my classroom days later, asking for the Valentine back.
The moment our eyes met, time seemed to stop.
“Annie,” he breathed.
“Jason,” I whispered.
And just like that, our past came rushing back, as if it had never left us at all.
