I was nineteen when I fell in love for the very first time. Her name was Cynthia, and she was unlike anyone I'd ever known.
We met in the university library during my second semester. I had dragged myself there on a rainy Tuesday afternoon to work on a paper I wasn't even halfway interested in. She sat at the far table with a stack of books in front of her. She caught me staring and smiled, and then looked back into the book she was studying.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked, pointing to the seat across from her.
“It’s all yours,” she said, sliding her notebook closer to her side. I instantly fell in love with the sound of her voice.
From there, things began to get interesting. Study sessions turned into having a cup of coffee, cup of coffee turned into late night walks across the campus, and I before I knew it I became familiar with the way her hair smelled and the expression on her face when she laughed.
For a while, we lived in that perfect bubble. We were the couple that friends teased for being inseparable. We spent weekends across dorm couches, sharing playlists and cheap pizza. She introduced me to poetry, I thought her how to play chess. She'd beat me every single time, but I never minded losing if it was to her.
But love at nineteen, as it turns out, is not the same as love that lasts.
It started with little dissimilarities between us that we didn't pay much attention to. She wanted to study abroad for a semester in France, something she'd been dreaming about since she was a teenager. I wanted to stay back, save money, and focus on one or two things. I guess she liked anything that seemed like an adventure—like road trips without a map, trying food neither of us could pronounce, getting lost just for the fun of finding our way back. But as for me, I liked structure. Knowing what was ahead of me, planning.
At first, the differences felt charming. But eventually, the charm wore off. We argued about everything: about whether it was worth it for her to go abroad, about how much time we were spending together versus apart, about the future—ours, separately and together.
The night it all ended, we were sitting on the steps outside the Student Union. It was pretty late. We had both been silent for some time.
“I can't keep pretending we want the same things,” Cynthia finally spoke.
I tried to disagree, but deep down, I knew she was right. She wanted freedom and adventure. While I wanted stability, predictability, a plan.
“Maybe we're not just meant to last,” I responded.
She turned and looked at me. “But I'll always be glad it was you first.”
That was the last time I saw her. The next day, she booked her flight to France.
The weeks that followed were quite difficult for me. I didn't know heartbreak could feel so physical. I lost concentration and even appetite. Every song that played on radio that time was as though it wanted to torture me intentionally. I deleted her number twice and re-saved it three times before finally blocking it for good.
Recovery did come, but slowly. At first, it was my friends dragging me out of my room to go see the games. Then it was engaging myself with early morning runs, which kind of helped. I also started journaling, writing letters to her I never intended to send.
Gradually, I began to get occupied with other things like school and my personal plans which made me not think much about her as often. I never stopped loving her—I don't think you ever stop loving the first person you fell in love with. But I learned that love can be both beautiful and temporary, and that's okay. Cynthia taught me beauty in things I didn't really notice at first, she also made me notice how poetry is related with our everyday lives. And even though she wasn't mine to keep, that part of her remained with me.
Years later, I still think of her sometimes. Not with bitterness, not even with longing, but with gratitude. Because she was the first person I loved, and losing her taught me how to hold myself together even when it feels like the world is falling apart.
I later realized that recovery isn't about forgetting the person you lost. It's about remembering who you became because of them.
