First Kiss

It was May. The air carried the scent of endings and beginnings — the final days of school and the promise of summer drifting in the breeze. The afternoons grew shorter, the sun dipped low and filled the classrooms with a golden light that made everything look softer, almost unreal, as if whispering, “Go outside, the world is waiting”.

I was twelve, maybe thirteen. My life was made of notebooks, whispered secrets with my best friends, and dance classes that I loved with every part of me. My hair reached all the way down my back, brown but kissed by the sun, and when I ran, I could feel it brush against me like waves breaking on the shore.

I wasn’t looking for attention — not from anyone. All I wanted was to study well, dance well, live in my little world. And yet, the attention of boys seemed to find me anyway. Even the older ones tried to catch my eye.

But there was one boy, and he was different. Not in the good way.

He wasn’t in my class, but everyone knew him. He had repeated a couple of years — not because he wasn’t capable, but because he didn’t care to try. Rumors whispered of a troubled family: alcoholic parents, a father who drifted in and out of prison. His hands were quick, skilled; he could steal something from your pockets and you’d never notice.

And for some unfathomable reason, he had decided I belonged to him.

I would see him everywhere. And when his eyes caught mine, he’d smirk with that infuriating mix of confidence and defiance. He brought me “gifts” — stolen pens, gloves, flowers ripped from the schoolyard. I never accepted them. My refusal didn’t matter.

That day in late May, he decided it was time. Time to kiss me.

And he had planned everything.

He waited by the school exit, in one of the narrow, shadowy corridors. The air there always felt heavier, like sunlight refused to enter. As soon as I appeared, he grabbed my arm. Before I could run, his friends blocked both ends of the hallway, slamming the doors shut.

I was trapped.

I fought. I tried to twist away, but he was stronger. With one swift move, he pinned my arms behind my back and shoved me against the wall. In that moment, I felt like a cornered animal.

“Let me go!” I shouted, but my voice dissolved into the muffled laughter of his friends.

He didn’t say a word. He just held me there, determined, bending me backward like some cruel parody of a dance. His hands were like steel — warm, unyielding — and no matter how I struggled, I couldn’t break free.

Then, in an instant, his lips were on mine. Not gentle, not hesitant — just insistent. I turned my face, but he found me again.

Time slowed. It stretched and stretched until I thought I’d never breathe again.

My lips burned. My heart was beating so violently I could feel it in my throat. His breath brushed against my skin. The sheer force of him startled me, frightened me. I couldn’t escape those relentless kisses, but I clenched my teeth, refusing to let him go any further.

Teachers walked past the hallway. I saw them. They saw me. No one stopped. No one said anything. They looked away.

Fear turned into rage, and rage turned into something bitter I couldn’t even name.

And then — finally — he loosened his grip, maybe from the effort of holding me down.

That was my moment.

I pushed him away with all the strength I had and ran, ran like hell, without looking back.

When I reached home, my chest was still pounding. My lips were swollen and red, so strange that I hardly recognized my own face. I ran to the bathroom, pressing cold water compresses against my mouth, terrified my parents might notice.

I told no one. Shame swallowed me whole. I just wanted to erase it.

The next day, my classmates avoided my eyes. They knew. They’d seen or heard enough. They were silent — not out of ignorance, but out of fear. Ironically, two of those boys would join the military academy two years later. One of them confessed to me, much later, that he had been in love with me and that watching me in that hallway broke him inside.

I never crossed paths with that “little delinquent” again. It was the end of the school year, and by the next, our worlds no longer collided.

I don’t even remember his name. But that first kiss — that stolen kiss — Yes. That I will never forget.

This memory resurfaced like a wave while I was writing my blog article, “Kissing with Eyes Closed. Why Do We Close Our Eyes When We Kiss?”. Because yes — it’s true. You never forget your first kiss, especially when it’s stolen.

And you? Do you remember your first kiss? Was it sweet, shy, unexpected — or a little stolen, like mine? Tell me in the comments. I’d love to know how that moment stayed etched in your heart.

#firstkiss #memories #truestories #emotions #growingup #adolescence #kissingwitheyesclosed #stories #nostalgia #feelings