He Was My First, But Maybe Not My Forever

Chapter 7: Falling All Over Again

There’s something about being in the presence of someone who once held your heart that unravels parts of you you thought you had buried. With J back in my life, it felt like my soul had found its rhythm again—like something that had always been missing had suddenly returned.

After the coffee date, things started moving quickly between us. He’d check up on me every morning with the words, “Good morning my thick smiling machine,” and it always left me grinning like a schoolgirl. He sent voice notes with laughter, with songs he heard that reminded him of me, with little thoughts about the future that made me blush.

He wasn’t trying to be perfect. He was just real. Honest. Unfiltered. And I loved that about him.

We started seeing each other more often. He’d sometimes pass by my place after work, and even when he was exhausted, he’d sit next to me, holding my hand as we watched a random show. Sometimes we didn’t even talk—we just existed in each other’s space. And that was enough.

I remember one evening, he walked me home in the rain. We had only one umbrella, so he held it above me while he got soaked. I tried to pull it toward him but he smiled and said, “You are my queen. I’d rather get rained on than see a drop touch you.”

I laughed then. But I also felt like crying. Because who says things like that anymore?

J did.

He made simple moments feel sacred.

One Saturday, we decided to visit my grandparents’ home. The place was peaceful, green, and wrapped in memories. He helped my grandma carry firewood and even fetched water from the river with my cousins. They all adored him instantly. My grandma whispered to me later, “That one, Mercy… he looks at you like he found treasure.”

And maybe she was right.

Later that evening, as the stars lit up the sky, we sat under a mango tree, the cool wind brushing our faces. He pulled me closer, wrapped his arms around me, and whispered, “This is all I ever wanted. You, me, and peace.”

I looked into his eyes and smiled. “You took so long.”

He chuckled. “I had to grow up, baby girl. So that I could love you right.”

And oh, how he did.

He listened when I talked about my past heartbreaks. He held me tighter when I cried. He never asked me to forget the pain, but promised to replace every tear with a smile.

For the first time in years, I felt safe.

One evening, we cooked together in my tiny kitchen. He chopped onions while I stirred the stew, and we danced in between like two silly kids. He’d wipe my hands with a towel, then hold them just to feel them. “Even your fingers are soft,” he’d say with a cheeky grin.

We talked about dreams. He told me he wanted to start a business one day. I told him I wanted to write a book. He said, “Write our story then. The world deserves to know how beautiful love can be.”

And maybe that’s what I’m doing now.

But even in paradise, there were cracks. Small, almost invisible at first.

Sometimes he’d get silent out of nowhere. Not cold—just withdrawn. I’d ask what was wrong, and he’d brush it off with, “Nothing, Kadot. Just thinking.”

Other times he’d be late to call, or cancel a plan last minute with a vague excuse. It didn’t feel like cheating—but it didn’t feel like openness either.

I started feeling anxious again. That familiar fear of not being enough.

But every time I tried to pull away, he’d come back with so much love, so much clarity, it made me feel guilty for doubting him.

“I love you,” he’d say as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Please don’t ever think I’d do anything to lose you again.”

So I stayed.

Because deep down, I still believed in us. In him.

In the story of two childhood hearts that had wandered but somehow found their way back to each other.

I didn’t know what the future held. But at that moment, I was willing to find out—with him.

Because maybe… just maybe… first loves do come back.

And maybe, they come back to stay.