When we were close to each other—so close, like hearts in love—I felt the joy of that love and the beauty of our proximity. But I still asked myself, “Was I really your first love?”
“I wish I were sure.”
I thought if I truly were your first love, I would always remain in your heart. As they say, humans never forget their first love. I believed that if I were your first love, you would remember me with every step you took, with every race you ran, with every joy and sorrow, and with every breath you breathed.
“I wish I were sure.”
Your heartbeat would call me, “My love, my darling.” Your heart would seek me, asking, “Where have you been? Where have you gone?”
Each passing day, every leaving minute, made me more insecure. I wanted to live in your heart forever. I wished I could be sure about the eternity of this affair.
I remember the time when I once told you that you were my last love.
“You are my first,” you replied.
You said it was I who taught you the real meaning of love. But still, I wished I were sure.
There was a time when I felt a great affinity for you—a consuming passion that engulfed my whole being. I felt your joys and sorrows. I lived your dreams. I thought you were mine, all mine. But I wished I were sure.
Then you left. When you left without giving any answers to my unending questions, my puzzles, and my restless heart, I began to feel antipathy toward you. It was a bitter and miserable feeling, harsh and burning, consuming my own heart.
Your beauty, which I once praised, now seemed beastly and monstrous. The face I had admired began to haunt me like a phantom.
I realized then that I had been mistaken about you. You were not the symbol of love and innocence I once thought. I never wanted to see you again. But still, I wished I were sure.
My every feeling turned against you. My heart hated you bitterly. Every thought became bitter and miserable, yet there remained that lingering doubt. I wished I were sure about your disloyalty.
There were countless reasons to hate you, yet your eyes—your gorgeous, innocent eyes—kept drawing me back. They radiated love and hope. Were those eyes deceiving me, or was it my own heart? I wished I were sure.
The antipathy consumed me, denying me peace. Slowly, I moved from antipathy to apathy—a void where I tried to convince myself that you meant nothing to me. But still, I feared you were somewhere near.
One night, I saw you in my dream. You were weeping, your glorious eyes shedding tears like pearls. My heart was filled with sympathy. I couldn’t bear your suffering, and my heart began to beat for you again. Was this love returning?
But it was only a dream. When I woke, I missed you again, as I had in the old days. Dreams often make us relive what we have lost and reignite forgotten feelings. I wondered if you were truly in distress.
“I wished I were sure.”
Then, strangely, my thoughts turned in your favour. A wise mentor taught me to shun negativity and embrace positivity. Gradually, empathy for you consumed me. I began to live in your shoes, to feel what you might have felt.
I no longer wished for certainty about this or that. Whether you loved or hated me, whether I was your first love or not, whether you lied or told the truth—it no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered was that I had forgiven you.
I had learned an art—the art of letting go. This art, one of the greatest, finally brought me the calm and peace I had sought for so long.
Now, I believe this love—for letting go—will be eternal, everlasting, soothing, and benevolent for me.
By Hilal Bukhari
bu*****************@***il.com