2025-05-05
I haven't seen him in 15 years—exactly half of my life. Maybe I thought of him about just as many times since then. This time he came to me sneakily, in the form of a book. Just like in all of my favourite stories, I found myself staring at myself in the pages. But he was there, too, clear as day and infused with ink. It's pathetic to say that I'm still holding feelings in my heart. I really thought they were gone, or at least buried. No, I think they've always been buried, but I've gone and resurfaced them again. Just to look at. To relive the feelings of my first true love.
With age on my side, I can see clearly now that it was just a childish infatuation, but the most bittersweet thing about it was that it was nearly reciprocal.
In the first incident, I was younger than 15. It was a rare moment where I was alone. It was him, I swear it was him, who found me. Sitting alone spooning out the flesh of a mango, the TV was playing softly in the background, he came to me. He sat beside me, quietly. He didn't say anything at first. After some time he looked at me and said, "You know you're beautiful, right?" I stayed silent and looked down at the mango cradled in my had. What could a nine year old say in that scenario? He left me as quickly as he came, but from then on, my eyes would instantly be glued to him any moment we were breathing the same air.
When I turned 15, I knew better. I knew how to act. I stuck to him like glue. I can laugh at myself now for being so transparent in my intentions. Under the unpolluted night sky, I boldly held his hand and traced the creases of his palm. The first hand of a boy that I ever held. It was a rather innocent gesture. I didn't hold it for long, and we went back to chatting amongst our friends.
One day I dolled myself up. I wore a pretty green dress, and got a friend to do my hair and bring me somewhere to get my face made up with lipstick and strange powder. When he saw me, he pretended not to see me. He looked away, tried to act cool. But then he looked back and his jaw dropped in recognition. His hands instinctively went up to cradle his head in surprise, and he ducked out of sight. Later, when we met up with the rest of the boys for real, he asked to take a picture of me on his phone. "You're beautiful," he said. I blushed, and assented. A few days passed and we saw each other again he idly passed his phone to me. His background was the picture of me in the dress. 15 year old me didn't know what to say. I hastily passed it back to him. "Is that me?" Startled, words spilled out of his mouth as he struggled to change it to something less incriminating. But it was too late, the image was imprinted in my mind.
Nothing came out of it. He moved to another city shortly after. Last I heard he has two kids and a very pretty wife. Whenever our friend group from that time has little reunions, he never comes. I never saw him again.
And here I am, 15 years later still thinking about him. They're small precious memories that I revisit from time to time. But I have no desire to hunt him down. The moment has long passed.
In that time I've had three partners. When I think hard about it, none of them have ever called me beautiful.
I'll bury these memories again.