That night, I left the café with my mind, body, and soul missing every part of her. I missed her scent; I missed her smile; I missed playing with her long black hair and her thin, delicate fingers—holding them was the biggest blessing ever. She was, and still is, so beautiful. Captivating. I thought I had moved on from her, but tonight proved me wrong.


    All the memories I had with her came crashing through my mind. I slept wondering what we could have been if we hadn’t given up on us seven years ago. She still looked the same after all these years. If I compare my current self to who I was four years ago, the difference is enormous. I looked like a boy back then—no sexy muscles, no defined jawline, and my hair never looked neat. Now, I’d say I’ve changed 180 degrees. But sadly, she couldn’t recognize me. She didn’t even look in my direction. I doubt she even realized I was there.


    We didn’t have a big age gap; she was four years older than me. I was 19, and she was 23. She was working while I was still studying for my A-levels. Despite being older, she always looked younger. And now, she looks like she could win over every man in the café with just a smile. She looked so stunning in that simple outfit—jeans and a sweatshirt. I never knew a woman could look so captivating in something so casual.


    Behind that sweatshirt, I still remember the warmth of her body. Every time we cuddled, I’d gently massage her breasts. She loved it. She’d tease me, asking me to give more attention to her right breast because she said it was bigger than the left. Honestly, they looked and felt the same to me. Every evening, I found immense pleasure in lying on her chest, my head resting on her breasts as I played with them.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    We were together for exactly 14 months. We did so much together. She was my first relationship, my first kiss, and my first sexual experience. She was far more experienced in relationships and intimacy than I was. Maybe that’s what I liked about her. Her maturity and confidence were both intimidating and exciting.


    That night, as I fell asleep, I had a strange and disturbing dream. I remember it vividly. We were having sex—she was on top of me, her body moving rhythmically against mine. Suddenly, her hair turned blue, and she jumped off me, running away naked. I stayed on the bed, still naked, watching her figure fade into the distance.


    Confused and shaken, I stood up to gather my clothes.


    “Hey, fishy, you better swim now,” a voice whispered in my ear. The sound was chilling, and I woke up instantly, sweating and trembling.


    I hated it. She was my first and my last. Since her, I haven’t been able to connect or develop any sort of romantic feelings for anyone else. I can’t even think about being intimate with someone else.


    I think she’s cursed me—to die alone, carrying only the weight of her memory