My First Time

Carrying the Secret

I woke up the next morning with the same heaviness sitting in my chest.

Chioma’s words had not faded overnight. If anything, they felt louder. High chance they move. Before the end of the session. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time, trying to decide whether knowing was better than not knowing. It didn’t feel better. It just felt like I was already grieving something that hadn’t been taken from me yet.

Yoma’s good morning message came in while I was still under the covers.

“Morning. Sleep well?”

I stared at it for a few seconds before replying.

“Morning. Yeah, I did.”

It was a lie. I had slept in short, restless pieces, waking up every time my mind drifted back to the possibility of her leaving. I typed another message before I could stop myself.

“You free after school?”

“Always for you.”

Those three words should have made me smile the way they usually did. Today they only made the weight heavier. I read them twice, then locked my phone and forced myself out of bed.

At school I kept my distance from Chioma. I wasn’t angry at her for telling me, but I also wasn’t ready to talk about it again. Every time I saw Yoma in the corridor my first thought was the same: How many more times will I see her like this before she’s gone? The question followed me from class to class like a shadow I couldn’t step out of.

During break she found me under the mango tree. Tunde took one look at us, raised his eyebrows, and made an excuse about needing to see a teacher. Yoma sat beside me on the low concrete ledge, close enough that our shoulders touched. The contact still sent a quiet warmth through me, even with everything sitting in my head.

“You’ve been quiet since yesterday,” she said.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

I almost told her. The words rose all the way to the back of my throat and then died there. Chioma’s warning echoed in my head. Let her be the one to say it when she’s ready.

“About how fast everything is moving,” I said instead. It wasn’t completely false.

She studied my face for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Is it too fast?”

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not too fast. I’m just not used to good things lasting.”

Yoma didn’t reply immediately. She reached for my hand and laced our fingers together, right there in the open. A few students walking past glanced at us. I felt my ears warm, but I didn’t pull away. Her thumb moved lightly across the side of my hand.

“I’m not going anywhere right now,” she said quietly.

The “right now” sat between us like a small, sharp thing. I wondered if she realised she had said it. I wanted to ask what “right now” meant, but the question stayed locked behind my teeth.

The rest of the day passed in a strange mix of normal moments and quiet dread. We texted between classes the way we always did. She sent me a funny complaint about a teacher who had mispronounced three names in a row. I sent her a meme. On the surface nothing had changed. Underneath, everything had. Every time her name appeared on my screen I felt two things at once — the usual lift in my chest, and the new, heavier fear that followed it.

After school we walked to the wall again. The sky was clear. The air was warm. She talked about a book she was reading and asked if I had ever finished any novel that wasn’t for an assignment. I told her the truth — that I usually gave up halfway — and she laughed. The sound still did the same thing to my chest. I tried to memorise it without making it obvious.

At some point she rested her head against my shoulder. I went still, afraid that if I moved she would lift it again. We sat like that for a long time, watching the light change. I kept thinking about how ordinary the moment was, and how much I already feared losing ordinary moments with her. The thought made me hold her hand a little tighter.

When we finally stood up to leave, she kept hold of my hand the entire way to her junction. At the corner she turned to face me.

“You’re still quiet,” she said.

“I’m okay.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead she stepped closer and hugged me. I wrapped my arms around her and held on longer than usual. When she pulled back she searched my face one more time, like she was trying to read something I wasn’t saying.

“Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

I watched her walk away until she disappeared around the corner. The familiar ache in my chest had a new edge to it now.

That night the conversation started normally. We talked about school, about her brother’s latest destruction of household items, about a song she had on repeat. I tried to stay present. I really did. But every so often my mind drifted to the future — empty corridors, unanswered messages, the wall without her sitting beside me. I kept pulling myself back to the chat, answering a little slower than usual.

Around ten she sent a voice note. I played it in the dark.

“I can tell something’s on your mind, Josh. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. Just… don’t shut me out, okay?”

I listened to it twice. The soft concern in her voice made my throat tight. Then I typed the most honest thing I could manage without breaking Chioma’s confidence.

“I’m not shutting you out. I’m just scared of losing this.”

There was a longer pause than usual before she replied.

“You won’t lose it.”

I wanted to believe her. I stared at the message until the screen dimmed, then lit it up again just to read it one more time. I almost typed Promise me, but I deleted it before I could send it.

I fell asleep late, phone still in my hand, her last words looping in my head.

The next morning I woke up to two messages.

One from Yoma: “Morning. I had a weird dream about you.”

One from Chioma: “Her mum was on the phone last night talking about packing. I thought you should know.”

I sat up slowly, the second message burning into my eyes.

Whatever small hope I had been holding onto overnight felt thinner already.

And I still couldn’t say a word to the one person I wanted to talk to about it.