My First Time

Packing

The message from Chioma sat on my screen like it had weight.

Her mum was on the phone last night talking about packing. I thought you should know.

I read it four times before I locked my phone and put it face down on the bed. My chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with the usual nervousness Yoma caused. This was different. This was the feeling of something slowly slipping out of reach while I was still holding on with both hands.

I didn’t reply to Chioma. I didn’t know what to say. Thank you for telling me felt strange. Stop telling me felt worse. So I said nothing.

Yoma’s earlier message was still waiting.

“Morning. I had a weird dream about you.”

I forced myself to answer like a normal person.

“Morning. What kind of weird?”

“The kind where you were trying to teach me how to play football and kept falling. It was funny. You looked really serious even while falling.”

I managed a small smile at that. Even in her dreams I was still awkward. The smile didn’t last long.

At school the secret felt louder. Every time I saw Yoma, the word packing echoed in my head. I watched her laugh with Chioma near the classroom block and wondered how much Chioma had told her. I watched her walk across the field and tried to memorise the way she moved, just in case. It was ridiculous. She was still here. Nothing had happened yet. But the knowledge had already started changing the way I looked at her.

During break she came to find me as usual. We sat under the mango tree. Tunde gave us space without being asked. Yoma leaned against me lightly, scrolling through her phone, occasionally showing me something. I nodded and reacted in the right places, but my mind kept drifting.

“You’re doing it again,” she said after a while.

“Doing what?”

“Disappearing inside your head.”

I exhaled slowly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Just tell me if something is wrong.”

There it was again — the open door. All I had to do was walk through it and tell her what I knew. Instead I shook my head.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. Her fingers brushed against mine, then stayed. I held on like the contact could stop time.

The rest of the day moved too quickly and too slowly at the same time. In class I kept catching myself staring at the clock, then at the window, then at nothing. When the final bell rang, the sound made my stomach tighten. Another day gone. Another day closer to whatever was coming.

We walked to the wall again. The sky was slightly cloudy, the air heavier than usual. Yoma talked about a test she was worried about. I listened and offered the kind of quiet encouragement I always did. At some point she rested her head on my shoulder the way she had started doing. I closed my eyes for a second and focused on the feeling — the weight of her head, the faint scent of her lotion, the way her breathing matched mine for a few moments.

“I like this,” she said softly.

“Me too.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She lifted her head to look at me. For a moment I thought she was going to ask the question I kept dodging. Instead she leaned in and kissed me. It was soft at first, then a little deeper. My hand rose to the side of her neck almost automatically. When we pulled apart she stayed close, forehead nearly touching mine.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She smiled a little at that, then kissed me once more before settling back against my shoulder. We stayed until the light began to fade. When we finally stood up, she kept hold of my hand the entire way back.

At her junction she hugged me longer than usual.

“Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

I watched her walk away and felt the same familiar ache, only sharper now.

That night the conversation started the way it always did, but I could feel the distance inside myself. I replied a little slower. I laughed a little less. Yoma noticed.

“Okay, seriously,” she typed around nine. “What’s going on with you?”

I stared at the message for a long time.

“I’ve just been thinking about the future,” I finally wrote.

“What about it?”

“About how nothing stays the same.”

There was a pause. Then she sent a voice note. I played it carefully.

“Josh… are you scared I’m going to leave you or something?”

My heart kicked hard. For a second I thought Chioma must have said something. Then I realised Yoma was only guessing from the way I had been acting.

I typed carefully.

“I get scared of losing good things. That’s all.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

I wanted those words to be enough. I really did. But Chioma’s second message sat in the back of my mind like a stone.

Her mum was on the phone last night talking about packing.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw empty spaces where she used to be — the wall, the gate, the chat that would eventually go quiet.

The next morning I was still in bed when my phone buzzed. I expected Yoma’s usual good morning message. Instead it was Chioma again.

“They’ve started sorting clothes. Her mum asked her to pick what she wants to take first. It’s getting real.”

I sat up slowly, the words blurring slightly before they came back into focus.

Then another message came in, this time from Yoma.

“Can you meet me at the wall before school? I need to talk to you about something important.”

My stomach dropped.

Two messages. Two different directions. Both of them pulling at the same fragile thing I was trying so hard to protect.

I stared at the screen, heart beating too fast, already wondering whether today was the day everything would start breaking.