I was just sixteen when school ended—not with a bang, but with a quiet ache I didn’t yet know how to name.
That day was our farewell party, arranged lovingly by our class teachers and the school principal. The hall was decorated with balloons and streamers, laughter echoed everywhere, cameras flashed, and promises of “let’s stay in touch” floated through the air. Everyone seemed happy, emotional, excited about the future. Everyone—except me.
I sat quietly in one corner, smiling when required, clapping when others clapped, but inside, my heart was restless. In a few days, I would be leaving this city, this school, and this life behind. I would be moving in with my father for my further studies.
The thought terrified me.
For as long as I could remember, I had lived with my mother. She had been my safe space, my strength, my constant. Four years earlier, my parents had divorced due to reasons I was too young to fully understand and too old to completely ignore. Since then, life had settled into a fragile balance—one that I was afraid would shatter if I moved away.
I didn’t want to leave my friends. I didn’t want to leave the familiar lanes, the house that smelled of my mother’s cooking, the comfort of being understood without speaking. The idea of starting life all over again in a new place felt unbearable.
As the farewell party was nearing its end, Sam walked up to me.
“Jes, are you okay?” he asked gently.
I nodded. “Yes.”
He studied my face and smiled softly. “But it doesn’t look like it.”
I looked away, hoping the conversation would end there. But Sam wasn’t the kind of person who walked away when something felt wrong.
“Hey,” he said, following me. “If something’s bothering you, you can tell me. Maybe I can help.”
My eyes welled up despite my efforts to stop them. Sam noticed immediately. Without pushing, without questioning further, he waited. And that was enough.
I told him everything—about leaving, about my fear, about my mother, about how unfair life suddenly felt. He listened quietly, without interrupting, without offering empty comfort.
When I finally stopped, he said calmly, “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You have a bright future ahead. Change always feels scary, but it brings something new with it. You’ll adjust, you’ll grow, and you’ll make new friends—maybe even better ones.” He smiled. “My mother always says that when something we don’t want happens, it’s usually preparing us for something we need.”
Before leaving that night, I gave him my new contact number.
Two days later, my father came to pick me up from my mother’s house. I hugged her tightly, trying to memorize the feel of her arms around me. Before leaving, I met Sam one last time. He looked sad too, but his words were full of encouragement. He told me to be brave.
Life with my father was… different.
He lived in a king-size bungalow, surrounded by servants and luxury. Yet, in all that space, I often felt invisible. He was always busy—meetings, calls, business trips. In the beginning, his indifference hurt. Later, I learned to live with it.
I filled my days with movies in the home theatre, long walks, and nightly calls with Sam. We spoke every single day. I told him about my loneliness, my college life, my struggles. He shared his dreams, his frustrations, his little victories. Other friendships faded with time, but ours remained untouched—steady, reliable, safe.
Years flew by.
Before I realized it, I was twenty-two. Most school friends had drifted away, but Sam was still there. He had become my anchor, my strength. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that without him, I might have broken long ago.
Then came the pressure.
My parents began looking for marriage alliances. I argued with my father, pleaded with my mother, explained that I wasn’t ready. But they insisted. To them, marriage was security. To me, it was fear.
I didn’t believe in love—certainly not love at first sight. Maybe growing up in a broken family had taken that belief away from me.
When Sam proposed to me one day, I panicked.
I laughed it off and called him a crook, accusing him of misunderstanding friendship. And then, out of fear and confusion, I did the worst thing possible—I cut him off completely.
He tried calling. He messaged. I ignored everything.
Days passed, and guilt settled heavily in my chest. Slowly, painfully, I realized the truth: I loved him. Not suddenly, not dramatically—but deeply, quietly, completely.
When I tried reaching out, he didn’t respond.
I apologized again and again, but silence was all I received. Losing him hurt more than leaving my mother, more than my parents’ divorce, more than anything I had ever experienced.
I was broken.
Then the day arrived when I had to say “yes” to meeting a marriage alliance. The family was familiar to my mother. I was nervous as they arrived, my heart racing as tea and snacks were served.
My father asked me to sit. With trembling courage, I lifted my eyes to look at the boy.
Sam.
He was sitting there, smiling—calm, confident, patient.
Life had brought us back together, not as teenagers, not as confused friends, but as two people who had grown, learned, and waited.
Today, we have completed forty-one years together.
Age has wrinkled our skin and slowed our steps, but it has never weakened our bond. I learned that love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect beginnings. It’s about staying, forgiving, and growing together.
Love’s beauty lies in the relationship, not in appearances.
Sam is no longer with me in this world. But every evening, at exactly six o’clock, he comes to the riverside bench.
To others, it looks like a sixty-one-year-old man sitting alone.
But he knows the truth.
He is never alone.
Because first love, when it’s real, never leaves.
***The End***
