First Love — Kevin Tyrone McMillion Jr.

Is this déjà vu— from the flicker of lighting to the buttery scent of popcorn in the air? This must be a dream I never fully woke from. The hum of the projector becomes a curtain, opening a bridal chamber of shadows where hearts unknowingly intertwine. We laughed at things that weren’t even funny, as if joy itself was enough reason. Our hands brushed and lingered— a hesitation that felt like discovery, catalyzing something I still cannot name. The first kiss— soft and tentative, like we were testing the waters of something too vast for hearts that had not yet learned their own depth. We rolled bowling balls down dim lanes, cheering like victory meant everything, groaning like loss meant anything at all. We shared fries between turns and whispered secrets that felt heavier than they were. My nature is to look forward, always forward— yet with you I bent against myself, drawn like a moth to a flame I did not fear. And still, I lose myself in the depth of your eyes. We dressed up for plays, breathing in the scent of old curtains, letting applause wash over us like distant rain. Our shoulders brushed— again, and again— as if even silence wanted us closer. You made the world feel smaller, and somehow safer. There is a flower I remember now— a tulip at first bloom, open toward light it does not yet understand, too young to know it will one day close again. That was us. Every laugh, every glance, every accidental touch built something that felt infinite inside something that could not last. And now, even with closed eyes, I can still hear your voice— and feel that quiet, trembling thrill of being someone’s first love.