I was fifteen, fresh out of 10th grade, at that in-between age where you’re no longer a child but not yet something else either. I never had strong feelings toward boys or girls, never looked at anyone with anything more than a sibling-like ease. I spoke to everyone the same way I spoke to my brothers and sisters—open, unfiltered, without second thought. Love was a distant idea, something for movies and novels, never something I saw myself tangled in.
That memory—my so-called first “crush” story—comes from one of those unforgettable village festival nights. In those days, our village celebrated everything together. Whether it was a church feast or a temple festival, religion didn’t divide us. We were one big, vibrant community. The final day of the temple festival was the most awaited. A famous drama troupe had come to perform a grand stage show. The whole village turned out to watch, dressed in bright clothes, children buzzing with excitement, elders catching up under the stars. I was there with my parents and siblings, eyes glued to the lights and costumes on stage.
During the interval, I stepped away to get a drink of water. That’s when I saw him—a boy I hadn’t thought about in years. He had been a classmate of mine in earlier school days. He walked toward me, slowly, like he had something to say, something he’d probably carried with him for a while. His steps were unsure, his face slightly flushed. It was clear he’d worked up the courage to speak.
But I didn’t let him.
Not because I disliked him. Not even because I was surprised. But because in those days, speaking to someone of the opposite sex—even briefly—was seen as something scandalous. People watched, whispered, assumed. A harmless chat could suddenly become a tale of teenage love. I didn’t want to invite those eyes or those words into my life. So I simply turned and walked away.
My brother had seen him approach. Protective, perhaps overzealously, he scolded the boy and warned him off. That was the end of it. He never came near me again—not then, not ever. Whatever he had meant to say stayed unsaid. And life went on.
When I look back now, I smile. People ask about my first crush, and I tell them the truth: it wasn’t mine. It was his. A quiet affection that never had the space to grow, silenced by time, by culture, by the way things were. And that’s okay. Some stories aren’t meant to unfold. Some are just passing shadows on a festival night—noticed, remembered, and then gently let go.
Sometimes, it’s the stories we don’t fully step into that stay with us the longest.
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