My First Time

Left on Read

I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the blue ticks like they were a personal insult. The message from Yoma was still sitting there, innocent and unanswered for hours because I had been too weak to fight the medication. My head felt heavy. My mouth was dry. The first thought that came was simple and brutal: I had already messed it up.

I typed and deleted more messages than I could count. Everything sounded either too casual or too desperate. In the end I settled for the truth mixed with a small lie.

“Hey. Sorry I just woke up. I was already half dead when you texted.”

I hit send before I could change my mind again. The ticks turned blue almost immediately. My heart climbed into my throat. Then her reply came.

“It’s okay. I figured you were asleep. You sound dramatic though. Half dead?”

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. She wasn’t angry. She was teasing me. That small difference felt enormous.

We started talking properly after that. Nothing deep at first — just how the morning was going, which teachers were already stressing people, the usual school complaints. She typed with proper punctuation and the occasional emoji. I tried to match her energy without sounding like I was trying too hard. Every time my phone vibrated I felt a small jolt of nerves and something warmer underneath.

By the end of the school day we had a full conversation going. She told me her full name — Yoma Okorie — and that she was in SS2 Science. She lived on the other side of town but sometimes took the same bus route. She said she liked quiet people. That single sentence made me feel strangely seen.

That evening the chat continued until almost midnight. I learned she had a younger brother who specialised in breaking things. She learned about my ugly toes and somehow didn’t run away. When I mentioned the Disney-witch face bumps she sent a laughing emoji and wrote, “At least you’re tall.”

I fell asleep with the phone still in my hand.

The next few days settled into a new routine. Good morning texts. Random complaints about school. Short voice notes. I still checked my phone far too often, but the panic had softened into something closer to anticipation. Tunde noticed the change immediately.

“You’re smiling at that screen like it pays your fees,” he said one afternoon under the mango tree.

“Mind your business.”

“It is my business. You’re my only friend who still has dignity. Don’t lose it.”

I shoved him lightly. He laughed and stole one of the biscuits I had bought.

At home my sister Kemi started commenting too. One evening she walked into the sitting room, saw me typing, and said, “Who is making you grin like that? Don’t say it’s nobody.”

“It’s nobody.”

“Liar. Your face is doing the most.”

I threw a cushion at her. She dodged it and stuck her tongue out before disappearing into her room.

School remained the harder part. Seeing Yoma in person still short-circuited me. One morning I walked into the classroom and found her already seated near the window. Our eyes met for a second. I managed a small nod. She smiled back. My palms were damp for the next ten minutes.

Chioma, her close friend, caught me looking once and raised an eyebrow with a knowing little smirk. I looked away fast and pretended to be deeply interested in my notes.

David, the classmate who sat two seats away from me, leaned over during a free period.

“Is it true you’re talking to Yoma?” he asked in a low voice.

“Who told you that?”

“People talk. You’re not as invisible as you think anymore.”

I didn’t know whether to feel pleased or exposed.

The conversations with Yoma kept growing longer. We started sharing small pieces of our days almost without thinking. She sent me a picture of her messy study table one night with the caption “This is what ambition looks like at 11 p.m.” I sent back a photo of my own equally messy table and wrote “Twins.” She replied with three laughing emojis.

One evening she asked if I had always been this quiet.

“Mostly,” I answered. “It’s safer.”

“Safer from what?”

“From looking stupid. From people realising you’re not as interesting as you hope.”

There was a short pause before she typed, “I think you’re interesting enough.”

I stared at that message for a long time. My chest felt tight in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

Later that night I told Tunde about it while we were walking home.

“She’s being nice,” he said. “Don’t start writing her name in your books yet.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can see it in your eyes.”

He was right, of course. I was already further gone than I wanted to admit.

The days continued like that — small steps forward mixed with the same old fear. I still froze when she appeared suddenly in the corridor. I still wiped my hands on my trousers more times than necessary. But the freezing periods were getting shorter, and the conversations were getting easier.

One afternoon after the last bell I saw her standing alone near the gate, waiting for someone. My first instinct was to take the long way around. Instead I forced my legs to keep their original path. When I got close enough I managed a simple “Hey.”

She looked up and smiled. “Hey, Josh.”

We stood there for a short while talking about nothing important — the heat, a cancelled class, the fact that the week felt longer than usual. Chioma appeared after a few minutes and greeted me with a polite but curious smile. Yoma introduced us quickly. I said hello without embarrassing myself too badly.

When I finally walked away, my heart was still beating fast, but it was a different kind of fast. Not pure panic. Something closer to hope mixed with residual nerves.

That night I lay on my bed replaying the short conversation. It had been ordinary. Completely ordinary. And somehow it felt like progress.

I sent Yoma a message before I slept.

“Thanks for not making the gate conversation weird.”

She replied a few minutes later.

“You make it sound like I was planning to.”

“I was prepared for the worst.”

“Relax, Josh. You’re doing fine.”

I read the last sentence twice. Then a third time.

You’re doing fine.

For a boy who had spent years assuming he was doing the opposite, those three words settled deeper than they should have. I put the phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling, already wondering what tomorrow would look like, already afraid of hoping too much, and already — quietly, stubbornly — hoping anyway.