A Series of Firsts

A short story detailing the variety of first times you can experience with just one person.

The first time we met, we were just kids. We were eleven, simultaneously excited and terrified at the prospect of starting 'Big School'. I didn't know you at all, and you didn't know me, either. We were from different villages, different Primary Schools, and there had never been any reason for us to ever meet. We traded awkward smiles and equally uncomfortable chatter as we waited for our respective friends to pile into the classroom. My friends arrived first, and I said my goodbyes hurriedly as I rushed to join them at their table, and that was that.

 

The first time I ever looked at you, really looked at you, after spending five years in the same classes, you took my breath away. See, I'd never noticed your eyes were quite that shade of hazel, or that there were freckles scattered across your cheeks. I'd never noticed how beautiful you were before, probably because you weren't conventionally so. Your beauty was more in the way your lips quirked up into a smile, and in that infuriatingly infectious laugh. But, God, you were beautiful, and I couldn't breathe.

 

The first time we had a real conversation, I was sixteen and you were fifteen. We were at a party and the music was unbearably loud and my head pounded in rhythm with the beat of the bass. The vodka burned in my mouth just as the desire to know you burned in my veins, so up to you I went and it began. We talked for hours that night, shared secrets we had never dreamed of telling another. You knew me more intricately than the people I called my closest friends, had ventured deeper into my mind that I had ever thought possible, and I knew you just as intimately in return. 

 

The first time we kissed, I was waiting for fireworks. I expected a blaze of light, a shock of electricity, bells ringing, something. I waited for the typical things you read about in romance novels, and I got the simple press of your lips against mine. Your lips were dry and mine were bitten raw, so it was far from smooth. There was no firework show, but I found that this simplicity was better. This was so much more us. Simple. Easy. Understated. You pulled away and smiled, suddenly shy as your cheeks turned pink. I smiled, brushed the hair from cheek and leaned in again. It was the first of many kisses.

 

The first time you told me you loved me, I felt like my world had stopped spinning. I couldn't believe it - you, such a beautiful girl, such a compassionate human, loved me? It was unthinkable, impossible, but somehow real. Three little words had flipped everything on its head, and I found myself praying for the first time, praying that I would never lose this topsy-turveyness in the world. It felt like everything was upside down and it was almost painfully amazing just the same. You loved me. And, God, I loved you.

 

The first time we fought, the world didn’t stop. The walls didn’t crumble around me, the Sun didn’t set in the east �" everything continued as normal. Only you weren’t there as you normally were. Shy, flirty smiles were replaced by angry stares and disappointed sighs. Total and utter confidence and continuous conversation dissolved into muttered ‘hello’s and ‘goodbye’s in the corridors with frowns tugging at our lips. The world didn’t stop, but I couldn’t help but feel it should have.

 

The first time you left, I didn’t struggle out of bed the next day. You were gone, lost to me forever through your own choices, and I was helpless to change your mind. I told you to be happy, and to do whatever it took to make sure you were, and you, in turn, left. I woke up and climbed out of bed, went to college, continued on with my life. Nothing changed, except for you. You disappeared from my life, took your words and your smile and your laugh and left. I still inhaled oxygen, exhaled carbon dioxide, but I felt like I wasn’t breathing. The world kept spinning but I couldn’t understand how or why, because what was the point if you weren’t there? I never took myself as one of those silly girls in the romance novels you so loved who would fall into despair when their love left, but I found myself slipping into dark moods and darker thoughts all the same.

 

The first time I cried over you, my pillow was soaked with salty tears and my shoulders wouldn’t stop shaking with sobs. Breathing was next to impossible, stopping even more so. The knowledge you had moved on, found yourself someone new burned in my mind even as I desperately tried to forget it. You were truly lost to me, never to return, and my pillow would be the only one to know how deeply that knowledge hurt me.

 

The first time I moved on from you, I didn’t notice. Day to day nothing seemed to change. I followed the routine I had set out months beforehand, months before you were even a spec on my radar. I woke, went to college, came home, went to work, saw my friends. I existed. Except, one day, I woke up and I started to live again. And me, ever oblivious, I somehow didn’t even notice, until someone mentioned your name and I only felt a strange sort of nostalgia instead of the crippling loss I had grown used to.

 

The first time I forgave you, for everything, you didn’t know. I never told you; what was the point? We hadn’t spoken in months. There would be no reason for me to randomly call or text or message you to let you know I forgave you. But still, even now, I want you to know. I loved you, and you loved me, and it hurt, but it was everything first love was supposed to be. You will always be my first love, and I would never do it any other way.

 

Thank you.