I was dating my first boyfriend in high school for a long time

In the tender remembrance of Shay Mitchell—“I was dating my first boyfriend in high school for a long time, and we broke up before prom… I went with my friends and got a million photos with them!”—we hear a small story that glows like a hearth on a winter road. The ancients would have called it a parable of steadfast company. It begins in the language of loss—broke up—yet ends in the grammar of abundance: not one companion, but many; not one portrait, but a thousand bright witnesses that joy can be remade.

Do not overlook the wisdom tucked into this youthful scene. Prom—that modern rite garlanded with satin and expectation—often tempts the heart to believe that worth arrives arm-in-arm with romance. But here the lesson turns like a sunlit coin: when the first boyfriend becomes a memory, the circle of friends becomes a shield. In that circle, the self is not auditioned; it is welcomed. A festival does not need a throne; it needs a table where laughter lives. And so the night is redeemed by fellowship, and the camera, that tireless scribe, records not a deficit but a chorus.

The ancients named three loves: eros, the arrowed fire; philia, the braided trust of comrades; and agape, the wide, unearned kindness. This tale crowns philia without scorning eros. It teaches that when one flame gutters, another can be cupped against the wind. A girl, newly untethered, chooses not the sulk of shadow but the procession of friends; she steps into the hall with those who know her seasons, and the evening, once feared, becomes harvest.

Consider a scene from living history. On VE Day, the young Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret slipped into the jubilant London night, not as sovereigns, but as sisters among strangers. There was no formal escort, no gilded balcony between them and the people—only the open street and the arm-linking joy of a crowd. If the end of war can be celebrated rightly among companions, then surely the end of a high-school romance can be survived—indeed, transfigured—in the company of friends who pull us into the dance when our courage is shy.

There is also craft here, not just comfort. To choose friends at prom is to choose agency: “I will not let circumstance write my page; I will write it with those who hold my pen when my hand is tired.” The million photos are more than pixels; they are vows in miniature—testimonies that dignity is communal, that delight grows when shared. The night becomes a chapel of ordinary holiness: shoes kicked under the table, jokes told twice, a dress carried carefully over puddles, the kind of attention that says, “We will not let you vanish.”

What, then, is the charge to the generations who listen? First, honor the architecture of your life so that philia can bear weight when eros falters. Cultivate the friendships that outlast fashions—show up at small hours, remember birthdays and bad days, anchor your people with gentle persistence. Second, practice the art of recovery: when plans break, replace them with presence. If the partner is gone, bring the choir. If the script is torn, improvise a kinder one. Third, ritualize remembrance—make your own photos: written notes, shared meals, tiny pilgrimages that stitch the heart to its companions.

Let the practical steps be simple and strong. (1) Keep a “circle ledger”: five friends you will serve monthly without being asked. (2) Build a tradition that does not depend on romance—a yearly picnic, a movie night on the floor, a sunrise walk after hard endings. (3) Learn to bless the room you enter: give three honest compliments, take three candid photos, leave three small messes tidied. (4) When heartbreak comes, set a 48-hour plan of tenderness—sleep, water, movement, community—and then step back into the light with your people at your side.

At last, carry this teaching like a signet: your worth is not a ticket that another must validate. High school, prom, dating, break up—these are chapters, not verdicts. The truest crowns are not slipped on by a date at the door but woven by friends who have learned your real name. And when the night asks, “With whom will you go?” answer as the brave do: “With those who keep me whole.” Then lift the camera of your attention, and take a million photos with them—images not merely of faces, but of a life that chose community over collapse, and found, in choosing, a deeper joy.