my first love

I don’t know exactly what I’m about to write. There’s this feeling inside me, heavy and hard to pin down, something I can’t quite express. It’s been with me since childhood, a quiet ache I don’t fully understand. Growing up, I didn’t have the words for it, and even now, I’m not sure what to call it. All I know is that I messed up somewhere along the way—big time.My early years were a blur of isolation. I had no female friends during school, not a single one. I couldn’t string together a coherent sentence in front of girls, stumbling over words like they were landmines. My school didn’t help. It was a strict, rule-bound place—think prison vibes, minus the bars. Talking to anyone, let alone girls, was out of the question. And being in a hostel? That sealed the deal. No friends in my hometown, no casual chats, no chance to learn how to connect with people. Zero female interaction. It’s not like I was unhappy, exactly—it was just… quiet. 

  A good life, in a way, but so closed off.When visitors came to our house, I’d grab my things and bolt to my room. For my parents, getting me to come out and talk was like a Mission: Impossible sequel. If I knew the person, I could be a chatterbox, lively and engaged. But with strangers? Long, awkward pauses. I’d freeze, my mind blank, unable to bridge the gap. Over time, I got better at handling those moments, sorting things out in my own way. But until college, it was just me, managing my own world, keeping to myself.

College was a game-changer, and I owe a huge shoutout to my two English faculty mams. They gave me my first real chance to interact with girls—those mysterious beings who made my heart race faster than anything. At first, I was a mess, but slowly, I realized something mind-blowing: they’re just humans, like me. Who knew? Freshman year was a breeze—no ragging, no extra burdens, just a perfect little world. My friends were awesome, my grades were solid (not that I cared much), and everything clicked. Life felt good.Then came second year, and things shifted. My friend group splintered, divided into different branches and sections. I landed in a new class with only four familiar faces—my core crew. The rest? Total strangers. 

 On the first day, I walked in, scoped out the room, and claimed a window-side bench. It felt like my spot, my anchor in this sea of new faces. That’s where it all began—the start of my epic college story. Day one was chill, just catching up with the guys, no big expectations. It passed quietly, and I left feeling grateful for my small circle of friends. So far, so good.But the second day? That’s when the nerves kicked in. 

I was paranoid someone would steal my precious window seat. So, I showed up early, grabbed a sheet of paper, wiped the dust off my bench, and planted myself there. I saved a spot for my friend beside me, waving at my new buddies as they trickled into class. My eyes kept darting to the door, wondering who’d walk in next, what this semester would bring…

Then she walked in—the queen of the classroom. Who was she? A new face, maybe from another section. She carried a pink bag, a pink bottle, the whole pink package. (Seriously, who coordinates like that?) I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She glided to the first bench, and my brain short-circuited. Was she in our section? I didn’t see her yesterday. Where the heck was I? She started chatting with her friends, and I felt a pang of awkwardness, like I was intruding just by watching. But I couldn’t stop.  My friend showed up, plopping down next to me and blocking my view. Useless guy. Then the teacher arrived, launching into the usual spiel about academics and our future. It was torture, testing my patience. All I could think about was her. I stole glances whenever I could, summoning every ounce of bravery. From my window-side bench—thank you, past me, for picking this spot—she was perfectly visible. Thank you, universe, for landing me in this section. And thank you, her, for choosing that first bench.

She was locked in, staring at the green board, soaking up the teacher’s words. Meanwhile, I was a fool, staring at her. (Come on, man, focus on the class!) But no, I pushed aside the lecture and kept watching. When class ended, I lingered, waiting for her to leave. She packed her bag slowly, and I still didn’t know her name—just her roll number, burned into my brain. I caught the bus back to my room, her image replaying in my head. My heart was racing, faster than ever. The rest of the day? All her.

From that moment, I made a vow: never miss a class, never sit anywhere but my bench. Days passed, and I kept watching, barely hearing a word in class. I thought it was just infatuation, a phase that would fade. But it didn’t. It grew, deeper and stronger, until it consumed me. I needed to know more about her. So, I started piecing together what I could:

✓Her name.

✓She’s a local.

 That’s all I had. I didn’t tell a soul, keeping it locked in my heart. 

Is this love? I’ve never felt it before, but this feeling—it’s powerful, undeniable

I scoured the internet for answers, but all I found were clichés: “Wait till your heart speaks,” “Love grows with mutual understanding and care.” Blah, blah, blah. 

It felt awkward, even silly, to be so consumed by her. I watched her from a distance, always careful not to stare too long. She had her crew, a tight-knit group of friends, always laughing, always together. No guy friends, though—maybe she was single? But then I’d catch her glued to her phone, and doubt crept in. Maybe not. I tried to shake it off, telling myself to focus on studies, to let go of this dream. “It’s not good for you,” I whispered to my heart. “Stop thinking about her.”But she was everywhere. In the hallways, in my thoughts, in the air I breathed. 

It was like the universe was playing tricks on me. I used to be the class clown, cracking jokes and lighting up the room, but even that started to fade. Her presence—her supremacy—silenced my voice, tangled my thoughts. I barely spoke to other faculty, except one mam, as if my world had narrowed to her orbit.Yet, something strange was happening. My life felt… better. Little moments started piling up, like she was always near me, not on purpose, but enough to make my heart race. Was it fate? Coincidence? I couldn’t tell. 

Then, one day in the lab, it happened. I mustered the courage to speak to her. “Can I borrow a red pen?” I asked, voice shaky. She handed it over with a small smile, and I thanked her, my heart doing somersaults. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her look, her blink, the way she handed me that pen—it was etched in my mind. I’d touched heaven and crashed back to earth, all in a second. I’d never been happier.From then on, my feelings snowballed. Every glance at her felt like a scene from a movie, the world blurring around her like a cinematic filter. Time froze when she was near, and nothing else mattered. One day, I saw her admission photo—a T-shirt that read, “Girl” No, I thought, you’re not. You fell from another universe, sent here to stop my heart.

A month vanished in a blur, lost to watching her. Every day, I silently thanked her for showing up, for being there to light up my world. I spent every minute plotting how to talk to her, dreaming of blurting out, “I can’t stop thinking about you,” then sprinting away before she could respond. But fear stopped me cold. What if she laughed? What if she slapped me and said, “Go look in a mirror”? Her phone was always in her hands, and she seemed so… untouchable.

 My mind spiraled, ticking off reasons to stay quiet:

✓She’s probably not single.

✓Don’t bother her—she’s fine without you.Keep your feelings buried; 

✓she doesn’t see you that way.

✓She’s a topper, acing every class. You? Just back off.

✓She’s a good girl, out of your league.

There are tons of guys like you. Why would she notice you?

✓Her Instagram? Stalked it. She’s a universe above me.

I’m the kind of guy who turns every moment into a memory, who pokes at life for a spark. But her? I figured she’d hate that. So, I told myself to stay far away, to love her from a distance. 

It was safer that way—for her, for me. She deserved someone better, someone perfect, not a mess like me.

But this crush was a crisis. My grades tanked. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t care about studies. I showed up to every class, not for the lectures, but for her. My friend next to me was the only one who knew, catching my stares and shaking his head. It was dramatic, sure, but it wasn’t some cinematic fantasy. This was real life, and it hit me hard: she was the girl I wanted in my life. Every day, she made my world brighter, holidays be damned. (Why do we even need holidays? They just keep her away.)I don’t believe in God, but if one exists, I’d beg for one chance—just one—to tell her how I feel and run before the world crashes down.

I’m convinced this is my first love, raw and real, but it’s one-sided. And honestly? That’s okay. She doesn’t know how I feel, and there’s a strange relief in that. It’s safer this way, loving her from afar. It’s like admiring a flower in a garden—you don’t pluck it and take it home, because it belongs where it thrives, rooted in its own world. So, I’ll stay back, watching her shine, letting my heart ache quietly. Sometimes, the best way to love is to let it bloom from a distance.

One ordinary day, everything changed. I was stealing my usual glance at her when she looked back—straight into my eyes. My heart slammed against my chest, racing faster than ever. What the hell just happened? I froze, stunned, as she turned away. Then, after a moment, she looked again. Those eyes locked on mine, and I swear I nearly had a heart attack. Was she smiling? Was it at me? My mind spiraled. Maybe she needed something—a duster, a book, anything from my friend next to me. Or maybe I’d cracked a joke earlier and forgotten? No, that couldn’t be it. Her presence had already fried my communication skills; this was no time for jokes.I told myself she wasn’t looking at me. It had to be someone else. But then it happened again—another glance, another smile. My heart couldn’t take it. Whatever she was doing, it was a crime. Someone needed to tell her those looks could stop a heart.

 I stumbled back to my room, replaying every second, analyzing every glance. Was something wrong with her? Was she okay? The day blurred past, lost in my head.The next day, it happened again. Our eyes met, lingering longer this time, until someone interrupted. I was sure she needed something from me—a pen, a notebook, anything. I wanted to ask, but my confidence with girls, usually solid, crumbled in her presence. So, I didn’t. Instead, we kept stealing glances, day after day, no words, just eyes locked in a silent dance. I didn’t know what was happening to her, or to me. I’d fallen hard, without a clue how or why. Did she feel something too? I dared to hope, but I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that my world was shifting, and then—holidays hit, pulling us apart.

The holidays are dragging, but they’ve given me time to think. When they’re over, I’m doing it—I’m confessing to her. My heart’s set on it, no matter how much it shakes at the thought. What if she says no? That fear gnaws at me, but I’ve made peace with it. If she doesn’t feel the same, I’ll be okay. I’ll stay the lone soldier, admiring her from the edges, letting her shine in her world while I carry this love quietly in mine.