The days that followed our first meeting felt different in ways I couldn't explain. The streets hadn't changed, the town hadn't suddenly become more beautiful, but everything had begun to glow with a quiet kind of awareness. Every turn seemed to hold a possibility. Every corner felt like it might lead to him.
Lucas wasn't just a boy; he was a presence. He had that calm energy that people either ignored or remembered forever. He didn't try to stand out, but somehow he always did. Maybe it was the way he listened — like every word had weight — or the way his silences never felt awkward. He was the first person to make me realize that sometimes being understood doesn't require much talking at all.
Our friendship grew in small, steady moments. We met by coincidence so often it began to feel like the universe was in on our secret. The library, the market, the bus stop, the half-finished bridge by the river — he was always there, as if drawn by the same invisible pull that I couldn't name.
He had a habit of asking questions that seemed ordinary but stayed with me long after we said goodbye.
"What do you think silence sounds like if you could record it?"
"Do you think people can miss something before it's gone?"
"What scares you more — staying, or leaving?"
I never had answers right away. He never needed them. He just liked to see me think.
One evening, as the sun melted into gold, we sat by the riverbank. The air was heavy with the scent of wet soil and wild grass. He was skipping stones badly, and every failed attempt made him laugh in that low, careless way that made my chest tighten.
"Do you ever get tired of this town?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I used to. But lately, it feels like it's learning new tricks."
I smiled. "You mean I'm the new trick?"
He smirked. "You said it, not me."
It was the first time I noticed how his eyes caught the light — dark brown, but with little flecks that looked gold when the sun hit them. It was also the first time I realized that my pulse had started keeping time with his laughter.
He reached for my notebook — the one I always carried — and flipped it open to the back page.
"Things you will become," he read. "You missed one."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"
He scribbled something quickly before I could stop him. When I grabbed it back, his handwriting stared up at me, uneven but sure:
Someone unforgettable.
For a second, the world went still. Even the river seemed to hush.
I laughed to hide the sudden warmth rising in my throat. "That's cheesy."
"Maybe," he said softly. "But it's true."
He didn't say to me, but he didn't need to. I heard it anyway.
After that, Lucas became a rhythm in my days. We built our own language — half laughter, half silence. He started walking me home in the evenings, always stopping a few doors before my house so my mother wouldn't start asking questions. Sometimes, he'd bring a single mango, not to eat, but to hold, a running joke between us.
He'd say, "This one's a lucky mango. For exams."
Or, "For surviving another day without strangling your principal."
One time, when the rain came suddenly, we ran for shelter under the awning of a tailor's shop. The sound of the drops on the metal roof was deafening. I was shivering from the cold, and he noticed. Without asking, he pulled me closer, his arms tentative at first — like he was asking permission without words.
It wasn't a hug meant to impress anyone. It was the kind that fit.
Warm, quiet, honest.
When he finally let go, he looked away as if he'd broken some rule neither of us had agreed on.
"Sorry," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For forgetting to pretend we're just friends."
The world stopped spinning for a heartbeat. I could hear my own pulse, and maybe his too. But before I could say anything, the rain eased, and he stepped back into the drizzle, pretending to count raindrops.
I stood there, pretending not to be completely undone.
The next day, he didn't show up at the library. Or the market. Or the riverbank.
The town suddenly felt too quiet, too ordinary. Days passed, and I tried to tell myself it didn't matter — that maybe he was busy, that boys like Lucas always had somewhere to be. But deep down, I knew I had been seen, and once you've been caught like that, the world feels different when the gaze disappears.
Then one evening, just as I was closing my window, I heard someone call my name from the street. I looked down, and there he was — holding up a paper lantern with my name written across it.
"What is that?" I called, laughing.
"An apology," he said. "For making you wait."
He lit it carefully, the orange glow flickering against his face. "Make a wish," he said. "I already made mine."
I didn't ask what he was. I didn't need to. I watched the lantern rise into the night sky until it became a tiny golden star, and I thought, if love had a beginning, maybe this was it.
He was the boy who could make silence feel safe. The boy who saw through my jokes and found the soft parts I tried to hide. He knew my moods before I spoke them, my fears before I confessed them.
He wasn't my first crush. He was my first understanding.
And maybe that's what first love really is — not fireworks, not perfection — just someone who sees you fully, and somehow, it doesn't scare them away.