The First Time

Faishal Wira Abdurrahmaan


It was a chilly morning in August, 2015 when I saw her for the first time. I was wearing thin clothes but I wasn’t feeling any cold. I remembered well how she looked, a spark of brightness and warmth. That smile on puffy cheeks when I introduced myself “Hi, Dimas,” and she said “Dewi,” was what I remember the most. She told me about the first time she saw me. She said I’m a funny guy, and she likes that about me. But I said she was funnier, I mean, she’s fun sized and that’s what I found very cute. She laughed and I found myself slowly, but undoubtly falling down to a pit of feelings. I was head over heels in no time, and being with her was the happiest moment of my life.

I thought I will forever be happy. We would forever be happy. But I was wrong. All the butterflies I had when I was being hypnotized by happiness, gone. The first time I met her, I never knew that there was a deep black well of pain that was more than what I could face. Somehow, it hurt so much when she said, “maybe this was the end of us,” as I stared at her eyes blank, not knowing how to respond, not even know how to blink.

Once we were in a café and she odered expensive kinds of food, knowing she just got her salary. I was trying to prevent her from being consumptive and said, “Hon, you sure you gonna have that all? You’ll only be able to eat instant noodles on the weekend, you know.” I didn’t know what had gotten into her as she bursted out, “Don’t you say that! Why don’t you want to see me happy?” Tears dwelled in her eyes and it got me confused. I was stormed with shouts and I didn’t even know what made her upset in the first place. What more should I give to her if consideration wasn’t enough? That may be a simple thing but it means something to me. So when she ended it all, I was left wondering.

But shouts and arguments are not the only thing that matter now. There are good memories too. There are times when I was in the lowest and she would bring her face closer to mine, her back of her hand touching my forehead gently, her eyes glared like Puss in Boots from Shrek movies and she would say, “You don’t look well. You okay?” If I said that I was okay, because I was, because I didn’t even notice anything from myself, she would say with her words tense and clear, “You should take a rest, I mean it.”

Now I am back to reality. I should face that deep black eyes asking to end this all like it has never existed at all. It hurts me so bad just to know that I will have no more arguments over simplest things, no more gentle pat on the head. This was so wrong. We should never do this, cutting all strings like this. I begin to feel desperate for her, for the affections and all. I said please, please, please, but all that came out from her mouth was, “Goodbye.”

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