The summers of endless running eventually changed. They turned into something quieter.
By then, my legs had grown taller, my shoulders thinner, and my heart somehow louder. I was no longer just a child shouting across fields; I had begun to notice things I never had before. And one of those things was her.
She lived down the slope, at the far end of the road near the well. Her family wasn't poor, but they weren't much better off than us either. The first time I really saw her, not just as a neighbor, was beside the river. She was helping her mother wash laundry, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, strands swaying in the breeze.
I remember how the sunlight wrapped around her. It's strange how small things like that can stay with you forever.
She caught me staring. And I, foolish and clumsy, nearly tripped over the rocks while trying to turn away. She laughed. A simple, ringing laugh that somehow filled the silence I carried from home.
My mother and father had never laughed at me like that. For the first time, someone's joy seemed to flow my way without conditions.
Back then, we had no phones and no letters. We had afternoons, and that alone was enough.
Some days, I'd walk her halfway back from the fields. Other times, she sat near me while I tried to skim stones across the water. She was better at it than I was. Five skips. My record was three. Each time she teased me, narrowing her eyes in mock victory, my chest grew warmer.
It wasn't love in the adult sense. There were no declarations or promises. Just an endless string of small moments—sharing half a roasted ear of corn during the festival, hands brushing by accident while picking wildflowers, her teasing me for being afraid of snakes, and my desperate defense that "anyone would run!"
Ordinary moments. But to me, they meant everything.
I remember one evening more clearly than most. A festival night. Lanterns floated softly, bobbing with each gust. Music, laughter, and the crackling from food stalls filled the air. The whole valley seemed alive.
She tugged at my hand—bold and fearless in a way I never was. We ran under the glow of paper lights, weaving past people, until we reached the edge where fireflies danced.
For the first time, she looked directly into my eyes. And for a long moment, we said nothing. My heart thudded so hard I thought the whole festival must hear it.
But before I could speak, her family called from a distance. She ran back quickly, waving once over her shoulder. That smile… I see it even now, all these decades later. Pure. Unspoiled. The smile of something beginning and ending in an instant.
The season changed.
She moved away.
Her father had found work in the city, and within a week, her family packed up. No proper goodbye. No promise to meet again. Just distance—sudden and complete.
I stood at the riverbank one last time, clutching a stone, hoping she might return if I skipped it far enough. It sank after two spins, ripples fading into silence.
And so, that was it.
My first love. My first real loss.
Now, old and brittle, I lie here smiling faintly at the memory. It still hurts, but not in the same way. That hurt has softened, becoming almost sweet.
For what she gave me then was something no regret can take away:
the first understanding that the world was beautiful—not just wide and not just cruel, but beautiful.
And it taught me something else.
Some things are precious precisely because they cannot last.