The Second First Time
A story on something done second time might feel one like first time
They met again beneath the wisteria-covered trellis at the old train station—where years ago, teenage hearts had whispered promises too fragile to hold. The air still smelled of jasmine and engine smoke, but this time, time itself moved differently—like it held its breath for them.
Zara had cut her hair. Rafi still wore that worn leather satchel. They laughed about how absurdly different and painfully familiar everything felt.
They talked like old friends, awkward at first, as though too much had passed to go back. But then her hand brushed his on the bench, and the years melted, not backward—but inward. Into the marrow of who they had become. He joked, she rolled her eyes, and they both remembered the rhythm of belonging.
When he kissed her again—slowly, carefully—it wasn’t a repeat. It was brand new. Not because they’d forgotten the first kiss, but because this one carried everything the first never could: brokenness mended, detours taken, all the soft ache of what it means to choose each other again.
It was the second first time, and it was better. Because this time, they knew what it meant to lose something worth having—and still dared to hold it again.
About the Creator
Muhammad Abdullah
Crafting stories that ignite minds, stir souls, and challenge the ordinary. From timeless morals to chilling horror—every word has a purpose. Follow for tales that stay with you long after the last line.
Keep reading
More stories from Muhammad Abdullah and writers in Fiction and other communities.
In the Light of Her Eyes
It began with a look—a look that pierced the dull haze of a rain-soaked Thursday afternoon in November. I was seated at the window of an urban coffee shop, my nose fogged with steam from coffee and loneliness. Routine was life now. I worked, returned to an empty apartment, listened to the ticking clock at night, and asked myself when something would shatter this locked box I referred to as a heart.
By Muhammad Abdullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Silence Between the Clues ⭐
The Room That Remembered Everything The room was empty when Elias first stepped inside it — at least, that’s what his eyes told him. No furniture. No windows. Just four pale walls and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering as if it struggled to stay awake. The air smelled faintly of dust and something older… like paper left unread for decades. Elias had rented the apartment because it was cheap. Too cheap for a city that never forgave hesitation. The landlord avoided eye contact and spoke quickly, as though the walls themselves were listening. “It’s quiet,” the man said. “That’s all most people want.” On the first night, Elias slept poorly. Not because of noise — but because of silence. The kind that pressed against his ears until his own thoughts sounded foreign. At exactly 3:17 a.m., he woke up. The light was on. He was certain he had turned it off. As he sat up, he noticed something else. A faint mark on the wall opposite his bed. It hadn’t been there before — or maybe it had, and he simply hadn’t noticed. It looked like a handprint. Not painted. Not dirty. Pressed. Elias laughed softly, blaming exhaustion. The mind played tricks when it was tired. He turned off the light and went back to sleep. The next morning, the handprint was gone. But something else had appeared. Words. Scratched into the wall as if written by a fingernail: “You forgot.” Elias stared at the message for a long time. He tried to remember what it could mean. Missed bills? A call he didn’t return? A promise he never kept? Nothing came. He covered the words with a poster and left for work. That night, the dreams began. He stood in the same room, but it was no longer empty. It was crowded with people — faces blurred, voices overlapping. Someone was crying. Someone was shouting his name. “Elias!” He woke up gasping. The poster had fallen. The words on the wall had changed. “You were there.” His hands trembled. He told himself there was a rational explanation. Stress. Sleepwalking. A prank. Yet deep down, something stirred — a memory struggling to surface. Over the following days, the room grew more active. New messages appeared. Faint sounds echoed at night — footsteps that stopped outside his door, whispers that dissolved when he listened closely. One evening, he found a final message written larger than the rest: “Look.” Below it, the wall was scratched raw, revealing something beneath the paint. A mirror. Elias froze. He didn’t remember a mirror being there. His reflection stared back at him — pale, hollow-eyed, unfamiliar. Then the reflection smiled. Behind him, in the mirror, the room was no longer empty. A woman stood there. Her face was bruised. Her eyes were calm in a way that terrified him. “I told you not to leave,” she said softly. Elias turned around. The room was empty. When he faced the mirror again, the woman was closer. “You said you’d come back,” she whispered. “You never did.” The memory crashed into him like a breaking dam. The argument. The door slammed. The rain. Her voice calling after him. The stairs. The fall. The silence. Elias staggered back, choking on the truth he had buried. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. The walls began to fill with words — hundreds of them — overlapping, bleeding into one another. REMEMBER. STAY. DON’T LEAVE. The bulb flickered violently. The woman in the mirror reached out, placing her hand against the glass. Where she touched it, a handprint appeared on the wall beside Elias — the same one he had seen on the first night. “This room remembers,” she said. “So you don’t have to forget anymore.” The light went out. When the landlord unlocked the apartment weeks later, he found it empty. No tenant. No belongings. Only a single handprint on the wall. Pressed. But in the quiet room, on the wall beside the mirror, a fresh handprint remained — pressed firmly into the paint.
By Inayat khanabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
The Summer I Was Chosen by a Northern Mockingbird
During the long, suspended days of the pandemic, a wild mockingbird began visiting my driveway and chose me, again and again. What started as a strange encounter became a brief, meaningful connection that I still carry with me.
By Erica Roberts 4 days ago in Petlife
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.