My First Time

Hmmm, you might be thinking what I mean by “My first time.” If you have a dirty mind like mine, then yes — it’s exactly what you’re thinking. But it didn’t start the way those kinds of stories usually start. It started with a simple “excuse me” on a hot afternoon after school, and somehow that one moment rearranged everything I thought I knew about myself. I’m Joshua Collins. Just call me Josh. I’m not the kind of guy girls whisper about in the corridors. I’m 6’4, which sounds impressive until you notice the rest of me. I have ugly toes. I’m light-skinned but I burn easily and then break out like a Disney witch. My hairline is perfect and my hair grows fast, but the texture is a complete disaster. I’m talking about the worst kind of hair. I’m not the high-school dream boy that girls secretly hope will look their way. I’m just… me. Ordinary. A bit fugly. Used to being invisible. Most days I preferred it that way. Walk in, survive the classes, walk out. Don’t attract attention. Don’t give anyone a reason to laugh. That was the system, and it worked fine until the day it didn’t. That afternoon the sun was doing the most. The kind of heat that makes your uniform stick to your back before you even reach the gate. I packed my books slowly after the last bell, the way I always did. No rush. Rushing was for people who had somewhere important to be or someone waiting for them. I walked out of the classroom, past the old notice board, down the corridor that always smelled faintly of disinfectant and teenage sweat, and headed toward the main gate. That was when I heard her. “Excuse me.” The voice was soft. Almost too soft for the noise of students pouring out of school. I kept walking. Maybe she was talking to someone else. “Excuse me,” she said again, a little clearer. I turned around too fast. And there she was. For a second the whole noisy compound seemed to go quiet. She stood a few steps away in her neat uniform, hair packed simply, skin glowing like she had her own private filter. Her eyes met mine and my brain immediately short-circuited. I thought I must have made a mistake. Why would a girl who looked like that be calling me? People were moving all around us. Parents were picking students up. Okadas were hooting. And still she was looking straight at me. I almost turned back around and kept walking. My body wanted to escape before I embarrassed myself. But she stepped closer, and suddenly there was no polite way to run. “What’s your name?” she asked. My mouth opened. No sound came out at first. I forced the words. “Josh. Joshua Collins.” I was supposed to ask for her name too. The question sat on my tongue and refused to move. My face stayed calm — at least I hoped it did — but inside my head was screaming like a rockstar from the nineties. Heart slamming. Hands suddenly aware of themselves. Every brain cell shouting that this had to be a setup. She held out her phone. “Can you type in your digits, please?” The voice of an angel. That was the only way I could describe it in the moment. If it was a trap, I was ready to fall into it. My fingers moved on their own. I typed the numbers faster than I had ever typed anything in my life, double-checked them, and gave the phone back. My hands didn’t even shake. That was the only part of me that cooperated. I still hadn’t asked her name. Instead, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I asked for a handshake. She didn’t refuse. Her hand was warm and soft. The contact lasted maybe two seconds, but in my head it stretched much longer. For a strange moment I could have sworn I smelled flowers that weren’t actually there. She smiled a little, said she would text me, and then she was gone — swallowed by the crowd of students leaving school. I stood there longer than I should have, staring at the space where she had been, before my legs finally remembered how to walk. The rest of the day is mostly a blur. I remember getting on the bus. I remember sitting by the window. I remember checking my phone every few minutes even though I knew it was too soon. No message. Of course there was no message yet. Still, my eyes kept going back to the screen like it owed me something. When I got home I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and went straight to my room. I sat on the edge of the bed and unlocked the phone again. Nothing. I opened w******p just to make sure the network wasn’t playing games. Still nothing. I called Tunde later that evening while pacing around my small room. “Bro,” I said, “you won’t believe what happened today.” “What? You finally got a girlfriend?” he joked. “Almost. This girl walked up to me after school and asked for my number.” There was a short silence, then loud laughter. “You’re lying.” “I’m serious. She just came and said excuse me and asked me to type my digits.” “Which girl? Is she fine?” “Bro, she’s fine. Museum fine. Mona Lisa fine.” He laughed again. “So what happened after?” “She said she’ll text. I’ve been waiting.” “Bro, forget her. It’s over. Girls do that sometimes just to see if you’ll look stupid. Don’t stress yourself.” I tried to take his advice. I really did. I opened a game. I tried reading something. I even started rearranging the clothes in my wardrobe that had been messy for weeks. Nothing worked. Every few minutes my eyes drifted back to the notification bar. That night at around eleven I took my pills because I was feeling a bit ill — nothing serious, just the usual body heat and slight headache that came when the weather decided to change without warning. I lay on the bed and kept the phone beside me on the pillow, screen facing up so any light would wake me. I was already half-asleep when the phone buzzed. With one heavy eye I looked at the screen. “Hi, it’s me from school earlier today.” I saw the message. I even opened it. Then the medication and the tiredness pulled me under completely. I dropped the phone and slept. When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I remembered was the text. My heart started racing before I even grabbed the phone. I saw the message. I also saw the blue ticks. I had left her on read. That was the first time I truly regretted sleeping. I sat up so fast my head spun. My mouth was dry. I stared at the chat like it was a live bomb. What was I supposed to say now? “Hi” after eight hours? “Sorry I was asleep”? “I was dying but I’m better now”? I typed and deleted five different messages before I finally settled on something simple. “Hey. Sorry I just woke up. I was already half dead when you texted.” I stared at it for a full minute before I hit send. The single tick appeared. Then the double tick. Then nothing. No blue ticks yet. She was probably already in school or still asleep herself. I got up, brushed my teeth, took a quick shower, and tried to act normal while eating leftover rice from the night before. My younger sister asked why I was smiling at my phone like a madman. I told her to mind her business. All morning the chat stayed quiet. I checked it between classes. Still nothing. By break time I had already invented ten different reasons why she wouldn’t reply. Maybe she texted the wrong person. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe Tunde was right and it had all been random. Then, at exactly 11:42 a.m., the phone vibrated in my pocket. “It’s okay. I figured you were asleep. You sound dramatic though. Half dead?” I almost dropped the phone. That single reply was the beginning of everything that followed — the slow opening of a door I had never expected anyone to walk through. At that moment I didn’t know how deeply I would fall, how hard I would fight, or how completely it would eventually undo me. I only knew that a girl named Yoma had texted me back, and for the first time in a long time, the day felt like it might turn out better than I expected. I typed my reply with slightly shaking thumbs, already wondering what I was supposed to say next, already terrified of messing it up, and already — without fully realising it — beginning to hope.