My First Love: A Memory Seared in My Soul

They tell you that you never forget your first love. And it's true—not because it was ideal, but because it was genuine in the most unadorned and innocent manner. Mine arrived like the first rain following a long drought—surprising, invigorating, and impossible to ignore.

I was younger at the time, still discovering who I was, with my heart laid bare and believing that love could cure everything. She was not the most beautiful girl in the world, but to me, she was. Her smile contained this soft magic—like a sunrise spreading softly across the sky, not loud, not demanding, but impossible to overlook.

We met in the most mundane way—at school. We collided in the hallway one morning, and I recall the exact moment. She had dropped her books. I picked them up. Our fingers touched. It was corny, I know, but it didn't feel like a movie scene. It felt like the world stopped, just for a heartbeat, and let us breathe each other in.

First, friendship. We shared with each other, walked home from school, exchanged long late-night texts. She liked poetry. I pretended to like it too, so I'd have something to do. She loved the stars. I learned constellations. Somewhere in the process, as it always did, the line between "just friends" and "something more" began to blur.

I still remember the first time she called me at 2 a.m., crying. Her dog had passed away. I could hear her crying softly into the phone, and all I could think was that I wanted to remove her pain. That's when I realized—it was no longer a crush. I was in love with her.

My initial date was not elegant. We went to the park and got ice cream. She laughed as mine dripped onto my shirt, and I did the same, just because her laughter made everything alright. She had a sundress the color of yellow when we went out that evening, and I swear, whenever I see yellow now, I think of her.

Being in love was scary and beautiful all at once. Every move she made mattered. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear. The way she hummed when she was nervous. The way her eyes sparkled when she talked about the future. I held on to every glance, every sentence, as if they were all clues to some larger puzzle I hadn't solved yet.

We kissed for the first time under a blooming jacaranda tree. The flowers fell like purple rain. It wasn't perfect—we bumped noses and giggled nervously—but it was ours. And in that moment, nothing else existed. No exams, no deadlines, no fear of what was to come. Just her. Just me. Just the kind of love that only happens when your heart is unscarred and open.

But first love is typically the kind fireworks are—breathtaking, spectacular, and fleeting.

Time did make a difference. We did grow up, though not together. What had always been so effortless now felt burdensome. Silences were more glaring. Arguments were louder. We did love each other, but we learned at times love wasn't enough.

She wanted to travel the world, to chase dreams that had no room for me in them. I wanted to stay, to settle close to home. We tried to hold on, but sometimes holding on hurts more than letting go.

It rained on the night that we did break up. How lovely. We were in her car, outside my home, and neither of us said anything for the longest time. Then she did say something, saying, "I'll always love you, but I gotta go." I nodded, not agreeing, but understanding.

We cried. We hugged. And then she departed.

It was like the apocalypse. I remember lying up all night, gazing at the ceiling, questioning if I would ever feel that love once more. I steered clear of our spots, silenced her social media, even ceased listening to songs that reminded me of her. Memories, however, have a sly habit of creeping up on you.

Occasionally, without warning, I'll catch a whiff of a particular scent, or hear a laugh that sounds like her laugh, and I'm back beneath the jacaranda tree. I've loved since then, and I've been loved. But nothing has ever been nearly so fine as my first love.

She showed me how to feel so deeply. How to be vulnerable. How to give without receiving. And perhaps most importantly, she showed me that heartbreak is not the end—it is a sign that you were brave enough to love in the first place.

I can look back now and I don't regret one second of it. Not the tears, not the heartbreak, not even the goodbye. Because my first love wasn't about forever—it was about the moment. It was about learning who I was and who I was capable of when I gave someone else my heart.

At times, I still wonder about how she is. I wish she was able to find what she was looking for. I wish she still laughed in the same manner. I wish yellow was still her favorite color. And if, by some miracle, she ever remembers me, I hope she smiles. Because I do.