In 2017 I was 16, went to an all-girls Catholic school in Melbourne and had zero tolerance for teenage boys and their nonsense. Instead I spent a lot of gossip time lamenting Jake, who broke my tiny heart in primary school and then moved hours away.

A debutante ball was coming up. It was an expensive tradition that was fundamentally at odds with my values but I couldn’t say no to a pretty dress and dancing – I was a teenage girl, after all. Some friends asked cousins or co-workers from our part-time jobs to be partners. I got knocked back by everyone. When I complained to my mother, she let me know Jake had moved back to town, and did she want me to ask his mum if he would be willing?

Jake accepted and we spent weeks rehearsing. My mum would pick him up on the way to the dance hall and we would sit in the back seat, catching up on the last five years and laughing at our juvenile romance. It felt as though we just clicked again, and our giggly behaviour during dance rehearsals earned us more than one disapproving look from the teacher.

I was done for. I frantically asked my friends: did they think he might like me too? Should I ask him to my year 11 formal? Should I kiss him on deb night?

The ball was wonderful. While everyone else hit the dancefloor, Jake and I hit the couch in the foyer and stayed there all night talking. We missed dessert and I couldn’t find the courage to kiss him but he asked me to see a movie with him the next day.

On our first date – where we were dropped off at the local cinema with a curfew – I had my first kiss. I almost chipped my tooth.

The first months of our relationship were full of nonstop texting during the day and after-school visits with my bedroom door wide open.

I was surprised at how earnest he was; I felt as though I didn’t have to pretend to be a cooler version of myself. I wrote in my diary about how excited I was to finally have my “ill-fated teenage whirlwind romance”. I figured if I held on to the idea that we’d break up, then I wouldn’t get hurt.

About two months into our relationship, my mother tasked Jake and I with babysitting my younger siblings. We weren’t technically allowed to spend the evening in my room with the door closed but that didn’t stop us. After a few hours of laughing at YouTube videos, I went to have a shower and heard a crash down the hallway. My little sister had dropped a plate and it had shattered all over the tiles. I rushed out to help before she started crying. But when I got there, she and Jake were already cleaning up together and giggling. I snuck back to the bathroom with relief. Jake was good with my siblings and that was important to me.

Later that night I wandered into our lounge room to find Jake elbow-deep in our dress-up box and wearing a bright-orange tutu. My sister was beside him wearing a white wig. They ran around the room, Jake spinning like a ballerina to make her laugh. Neither of them noticed me. I stood and watched as I came to terms with the sudden feeling of certainty in my chest.

Lying in the dark that night, I told Jake I loved him. It flew out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I remember my heart playing jazz while I waited for his response. He whispered, “I love you too” and hearing him sound so sure made me cry.

Nine years on, my “ill-fated teenage whirlwind romance” has turned into a loving, long-term relationship.

Jake and I make each other laugh more than anything else. Life might throw a curveball but one of us is sure to make a joke about it. We often fall into comedic improv bits when we’re together, and I’m sure our neighbours think we are completely nuts when they hear us bicker like old people for the fun of it. But it’s safe. And it’s home.

Being with the same person since age 16 might seem crazy but I always say that kids are dumb, not stupid. I knew back then what I know now – that the right person will show up even if it seems too early. You just grow together. Jake may have broken my little heart once but I’m willing to have him hold it now for good.