It sat on the corner of my old wooden desk like a quiet miracle—dented plastic case, a screen that flickered for ten seconds before settling, and a keyboard with two sticky keys (the “A” and “Spacebar” that I’d clean with a toothpick every Sunday). That was my first computer, a hand-me-down from my cousin who’d upgraded to a sleeker model. I was 16 then, working weekends at the local hardware store to save up for a phone, but when he dropped it off in a crumpled cardboard box, I forgot all about that phone. This was something bigger.
I’d stay up late after my shift, the room lit only by its soft blue glow, typing out silly stories about a boy who fixed broken stars—stories I’d never show anyone, but that felt like magic to put down in words. The internet was slow, so I’d download songs one at a time, waiting 20 minutes for a single MP3 to finish, then play them on repeat while I organized my photos. Those photos weren’t anything fancy: blurry shots of my mom’s garden, my little sister making a face at the camera, sunsets I’d snapped on my flip phone. But on that screen, they felt precious, like I was preserving pieces of my life that might otherwise fade.
Once, I spent three nights teaching myself how to make a simple website. It had a terrible color scheme—neon green text on a black background—and only three pages: “About Me,” “My Favorite Books,” and “Photos of My Cat.” I showed it to my dad, who squinted at the screen and said, “Looks like a traffic light, but I’m proud of you.” I laughed, but I kept that website up for years, even after the computer started to lag so bad it took five minutes to open a single tab.
That computer broke down when I was 19, right after I graduated from high school. The screen went black one morning, and no amount of tapping or restarting would bring it back. I sat on the floor next to it for an hour, like I was saying goodbye to an old friend. I didn’t throw it away, though. I kept the case in my closet, the sticky keyboard still inside, because it wasn’t just a machine. It was the first place I ever felt like I could create something that was mine—stories, photos, a silly website that no one but my dad saw. It was where I stayed up late talking to my cousin on instant messenger when he was away at college, where I researched my first job applications, where I wrote a letter to my future self that I still have saved in a folder on my new laptop.
Now, I have a thin, fast laptop that fits in my backpack, and a phone that can do more than that old computer ever could. But sometimes, when I’m typing late at night, I’ll pause and think of that dented plastic case, the flicker of the screen, the way the “A” key stuck if I pressed too hard. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine—a little box of light that taught me how to hold onto moments, how to turn small things into something meaningful. I still have that letter to my future self, too. It ends with, “I hope you still have something that makes you stay up late, excited to create.” Thanks to that first computer, I always will.