It's our first time

Prologue

Some first times don’t come with instructions. They come with feelings—unfiltered, unpredictable, unforgettable. This is a story that wasn’t supposed to happen. At least, not in the way it did.

Two people. Two countries. Two completely different lives. One fleeting encounter in a foreign land—India. It began with simple greetings, scattered conversations about books, movies, and tea. But somewhere between temple trips and PowerPoint presentations, casual smiles became emotional glances, and time, though brief, grew heavy with meaning.

We were brought together not by fate, but by circumstance: a training program that put an African man and a Russian woman in the same building, on the same corridor, for just a few weeks. What unfolded between us wasn’t grand or perfect. It was messy, confusing, and at times painful. But it was real.

This book is not about a fairy-tale romance. It is about firsts: the first spark of something unfamiliar, the first clash of culture and emotion, and the first goodbye that didn’t feel complete. It’s about love that tiptoed in without a label, and fear that spoke louder than words. It’s about laughter, arguments, misunderstandings, and silent longing. It’s about how two people tried to hold on to something neither of them fully understood.

“It’s Our First Time” is a story of emotional courage and hesitation. Of moments that asked more questions than they answered. And of a connection that defied distance, if only for a little while.

We never promised each other forever. We barely promised each other tomorrow. But for that brief time, we were everything—curious, reckless, honest, and human.

This is our story.

Our first time.

Strangers Meet

The early days in India were marked by a quiet sense of unfamiliarity. For many participants in the international program, arrival signaled more than a geographic relocation; it was a cultural initiation, an adjustment of routine, and a test of comfort in a place where the known was replaced by the new.

He arrived with a modest suitcase, the weight of academic expectation, and the subtle anxiety that accompanies travel to unfamiliar lands. She, too, had journeyed far—from the frosty contours of Russia to the dust-laced streets of Delhi. The program had brought them both here: two scholars from distant worlds bound by a temporary opportunity for learning and cultural exchange.

Their first interaction was unremarkable on the surface: a brief greeting exchanged in the hallway of the hostel, a polite acknowledgment of presence. There was no foreshadowing of emotional complexity, no spark discernible to the casual observer. Yet in that moment, something unspoken passed between them—curiosity, perhaps, or the quiet recognition of another outsider navigating the same space.

It began, as many such stories do, with simple conversation: a question about the schedule, a remark about the humidity, a shared experience of jet lag. They spoke in English—a language that belonged fully to neither of them, yet functioned as a bridge between their thoughts. Her tone carried the careful rhythm of someone educated in linguistic precision; his, the textured cadence born of lived experience and formal training. Their words met in a space where grammar yielded to understanding, and accent became part of the dialogue itself.

Days passed, and the frequency of their interactions increased. In the cafeteria, at the lecture halls, along the campus walkways—they found themselves drifting into conversations both casual and layered. She spoke of literature, referencing authors he had never read. He spoke of justice, of stories from his home, of moments shaped by community and tradition. They were not always in agreement, but their differences intrigued more than repelled.

There was a sense, unarticulated but felt, that something subtle was taking shape. Neither sought it, yet neither resisted it. It was the beginning of familiarity—a connection made not through grand gestures, but through the quiet accumulation of moments: a shared walk after class, an exchange of music, a recommendation of a film.

She teased him for not knowing Sherlock Holmes; he countered with references to shows she had never heard of. Their banter, lighthearted on the surface, hinted at growing affection beneath. What emerged was a rhythm, a kind of emotional call and response, shaped not by romantic overtures but by sincerity and curiosity.

They did not yet speak of love. Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps the word itself was too heavy. But there was, undeniably, a presence—one that lingered between messages, glances, and laughter.

In the stillness of unfamiliar surroundings, their companionship became an anchor. Without naming it, they began to lean toward one another—not with certainty, but with the cautious hope that perhaps, in this foreign place, they had found something unexpectedly human.

And so, without ceremony or announcement, their story began.

In the weeks that followed their first conversations, the boundaries between formality and familiarity began to blur. What had started as polite exchanges soon matured into a kind of habitual presence. They began to seek each other’s company—not through declaration, but through repetition. He found himself looking for her across the dining hall; she, in turn, began to anticipate his arrival with casual glances toward the corridor.

Their conversations evolved. They no longer spoke only of the program or the academic sessions that shaped their days. Instead, they began to explore the nuances of each other’s lives.

She told stories of winters in Smolensk, of childhood readings of Russian literature, of long journeys on snow-covered trains.

He spoke of the rhythms of Ghanaian village life, of laughter shared under the weight of humidity and heritage, of the contradictions that defined home and the struggles that strengthened it.

They spoke about books—Doyle and Dostoevsky, Achebe and Soyinka. She was surprised he had never read Sherlock Holmes; he was amused by her inability to name a single African novelist. In these small revelations, they found not only difference but intrigue. Every unfamiliarity became a doorway.

But there were also silence-pregnant pauses that held more meaning than words. At times, she would look away mid-sentence, uncertain of what emotion might follow her gaze. He, too, often measured his words, careful not to say too much too soon, though at times his restraint broke with a disarming honesty.

They both sensed it: this was not just friendship. Yet neither dared to name it. There was comfort in the undefined, safety in the ambiguity. To give it a name would be to make it real—and reality, they both understood, carried risk.

Still, the connection deepened.

One evening, after a day of lectures and discussions, they sat beneath the soft glow of the campus lamps, speaking of nothing and everything. He asked if she believed in fate. She hesitated, then said she believed in moments—that some encounters, though brief, leave a lasting impression. He nodded, and though he said nothing, he felt the weight of her words settle in his chest.

In another instance, they debated the nature of trust. She argued that trust was earned over time, that it was fragile and often misplaced. He countered that trust was sometimes given as a gift—not because it was deserved, but because it was needed. The debate ended without resolution, yet both carried the other’s words into their thoughts.

There were jokes, too. She laughed at his obsession with practical details—how he always asked about taxi fares and SIM card options. He teased her for her fondness for control, for the way she always had an answer, even when none was required. In those moments, their banter served as a veil for something deeper—a shared affection too shy to show itself plainly.

And still, they did not speak of feelings.

Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this—whatever it was—existed within the confines of a calendar; one day, the program would end, flights would be boarded, and time zones would once again separate them. To speak of feelings would be to admit the possibility of loss. But even without saying it, they knew.

In the space between morning greetings and late-night messages, a quiet bond had formed. It was not official. It had no h2. Yet it was felt deeply, sincerely, and silently. And so, the unspoken remained—not because they were uncertain, but because, for now, silence was safer than acknowledgment.

It was a Sunday morning when the idea first emerged. The temple—ancient, revered, and surrounded by stories both spiritual and romantic—stood somewhere beyond the edges of their routine. A group of participants had spoken about visiting, and she, curious as ever, had considered joining. He, on the other hand, had shown little interest until she mentioned she might go.

“Are you going to that temple?” she had asked him before dawn. Her voice, though casual, carried a quiet invitation beneath its tone.

“You will sponsor me?” he replied, half-joking, half-testing.

“I am not usually sponsoring men,” she answered with a teasing smile. “But perhaps… just this once.”

What followed was not so much a plan as a flirtation with possibility. Her friends had their homework. Others debated schedules and sleep. She, increasingly, leaned toward staying in. But the seed had been planted. The possibility of spending time together outside the structured hours of workshops and group discussions had stirred something unspoken between them.

When she declared she was not going after all, he surprised them both.

“If you are not going, then I’m not,” he said. “I only considered it because you were. I love spending time with you.”

The sentence landed between them with the soft weight of sincerity. It was not dramatic, not grand. But it was true. She did not question it. Instead, she smiled faintly and asked, “What are the plans for today, then?”

“Whatever you bring on board, I’m ready,” he responded.

They settled on something quieter: revisiting the questionnaire they had failed to complete earlier. Practical, yes, but it was never about the task. It was about the excuse to remain in each other’s presence.

That afternoon, while others buried themselves in PowerPoint presentations and assignment deadlines, they sat side by side—sometimes working, often talking, and occasionally doing nothing at all. She left briefly to visit friends for tea and told him the door was open, that he could return whenever he wished. And he did.

Their time together was effortless. She would disappear for moments and return with stories; he would linger in the doorway, bringing quiet energy and the occasional compliment. At times, it was hard to say who was chasing whom. And perhaps that was the point—they were both, in their own ways, reaching for something undefined yet deeply felt.

The temple visit never happened. But something far more sacred did: two people, flawed and uncertain, chose to stay in each other’s company, despite the tension, despite the fear.

This was not a love story of temples and tours. It was a story of how ordinary days can carry extraordinary weight when spent with someone whose presence brings clarity, even amid confusion.

The Emotional Fault Line

In every delicate connection, there comes a moment when the foundation is tested—not by intention, but by instinct, fear, or the unhealed echoes of past experience. For them, that moment came without warning, dressed in the guise of a misunderstanding. And in its unfolding, something fragile cracked open.

The air that morning had been light, even tender. They had spent the early part of the day together, working through tasks, laughing occasionally, sharing space as though it had always belonged to them both. She had gone out briefly, and he had remained—waiting, trusting. When she returned, something had shifted: subtle at first, then swiftly decisive.

There was tension—the kind that builds not from words, but from what is left unsaid. And when it surfaced, it did so with a ferocity neither anticipated.

Words were exchanged—sharp, emotional, and layered with cultural tension.

She accused.

He defended.

He walked out.

She did not stop him.

It was a rupture neither of them had foreseen.

Later, her message arrived, raw and unfiltered:

“I got the proof from my own experience—men like you should never be trusted.”

The words struck with an immediacy that stilled him. His breath caught in his chest, not in anger but in sorrow. In a single sentence, everything they had built—not just closeness, but cultural trust—stood on the verge of collapse.

His reply was slow, measured:

“If that’s what you believe, so be it. You treated me as if I am not a human being. I’m not arguing anymore. But that attitude you showed was because you wanted to feel better after everything.”

Her reaction was swift: disbelief, pain, a need to be heard.

“I treated you badly?” she replied, incredulous. “My attitude? In what way?”

He spoke of the way she had dismissed him, sent him away as though he meant nothing. She spoke of boundaries crossed, expectations unmet.

Both of them were right. Both of them were wrong.

It was not the actions, but the assumptions—cultural, emotional, and gendered—that collided violently.

They were not just speaking of the moment. They were speaking of everything it represented: the tension between intimacy and respect, between cultural expectation and personal boundaries, between affection and misinterpretation.

“And you know,” she added, her voice trembling even in text, “when girls cry, boys usually say something to calm them down. You just walked out. What was I supposed to think?”

He paused. “I didn’t know. I’m really sorry. Let’s not fight anymore.”

The pain of the moment was real. Both felt betrayed by each other, and perhaps more so by their own expectations. Yet even in anger, neither walked far.

She hesitated, then gently suggested: “Let’s go out somewhere to change the picture.”

That simple suggestion carried the weight of reconciliation. Not an erasure of what had happened, but a willingness to begin again. He agreed, without condition.

The hours that followed were quiet. They made plans, checked ride fares, asked others to join. They ended up going alone.

In those moments, walking side by side again, it became clear that their bond had survived something vital. The argument had not destroyed it; it had revealed its rawness, its reality, its dependence on respect as much as affection.

They had seen each other’s edges and still remained.

Later that night, he texted her:

“I’m dying to see your face.”

Her reply was soft:

“The door is open.”

He went.

In the quiet of her room, under the weight of what had nearly been lost, there were no grand declarations. Only presence. Only a shared understanding that something between them had changed.

It was no longer just casual.

It was no longer safe.

It was real.

When it occurs between two people, it is rarely linear. It emerges not from a single moment of forgiveness, but from a series of shared choices: to listen, to soften, to begin again, and above all, to speak truthfully.

In the days following their conflict, their conversations deepened, stripped now of pretense. The language between them shifted from guarded politeness to careful honesty.

The awkward silence that had hung in the air after their disagreement was not allowed to linger. She invited him back into conversation with grace, and he responded with quiet resolve. They did not pretend nothing had happened. Instead, they acknowledged the discomfort, naming it without shame.

“I should not have said what I said,” she admitted.

“It came from a place of anger, not belief.”

He accepted the apology, not with passivity, but with a sense of recognition. He understood what it meant to react from emotion rather than conviction. He had done it before; they both had. What mattered now was that they remained present—for themselves and for each other.

Conversations that once centered on assignments and logistics now began to brush up against personal truths.

She spoke of her country— its history, discipline, cold winters, and strong women. He shared the pressures of academic life in Ghana, the expectations he carried, and the resilience it demanded of him.

One evening, as they worked side by side on separate tasks, he looked up and said,

“You speak very good English. I’m proud of you.”

It was a simple compliment, yet it landed with an unexpected tenderness.

She smiled—soft, unguarded—and replied, “Thank you. I had to learn.”

In another moment, she confessed her fatigue: “I’ve been sleeping and sleeping. This journey, this place—it’s exhausting and beautiful at once.”

“I know,” he said. “But you’re strong. And I see that.”

There were times she appeared withdrawn— overwhelmed perhaps by the intensity of what they were building. But he never pressed. Instead, he allowed space: space for her silence, for her indecision, even for her fear. It was a kind of emotional generosity that didn’t demand but invited.

She began to trust him again.

They continued their shared work: group presentations, academic deadlines, coordinating with others. He would remind her to eat, and she would remind him to rest. And yet, their partnership extended beyond practicalities. In the quiet exchanges between tasks, there was affection—unguarded and unstated.

He began to call her “MarBen”—a name forged from familiarity and warmth. She teased him about his seriousness, his habit of working late into the night. “You’re always thinking,” she said once. “Even when you don’t speak, I know your mind is moving.”

He smiled, replying only:

“It’s the only way I know how to be.”

Together, they created a rhythm—not romantic in the traditional sense, but deeply intimate nonetheless. It was a kind of emotional companionship that required no labels.

Then one evening, as they walked back to the hostel beneath the vast Indian sky, he said quietly,

“There is something about you I can’t quite explain. I just like being here.”

She looked at him for a moment and replied,

“Me too.”

And in that silence, beneath the canopy of Indian skies and the murmur of other students around them, they understood that healing had not only occurred—it had transformed them.

Not into lovers, perhaps, nor into something the world could easily define.

But into two people who had seen the fragile parts of one another and chosen not to look away.

It was not yet love.

But it was something near enough to matter.

Delhi, in all its contradictions, had become a canvas for their unfolding story. Beneath the smog-draped skies and the rhythmic hum of rickshaws, something quiet and sincere was taking root.

The city—with its historical landmarks, crowded streets, and unrelenting energy—became both witness and backdrop to the moments they shared.

It was not romance in the way novels often depict. There were no declarations shouted from rooftops or long walks beneath cherry blossoms. Instead, there were shared Uber rides, whispered laughter in the dining hall, and side-by-side study sessions that occasionally gave way to lingering glances.

She would often disappear for short stretches—to visit a friend, to attend a rehearsal, or to take a walk. But she always returned.

He noticed this pattern early, and in it, found reassurance. It was not absence that defined her, but her consistent return.

He had become part of her routine, and she had gently embedded herself into his.

One afternoon that stood out.

The group had been discussing a visit to India Gate. Most were noncommittal—schedules were packed, presentations loomed. But he and she agreed—quietly and without ceremony—to go.

“I’ll pay for the ride,” he said when she hesitated at the cost.

“I don’t worry,” she replied. “But thank you.”

And so they went. Just the two of them.

India Gate, with its towering arch and solemn silence, was a place of remembrance. Yet for them, it became a symbol of presence—a marker of a shared moment in time. They took photos, laughed at the vendors, and stood side by side, watching the sky deepen into twilight.

A simple excursion, but one that lingered in memory.

Later that evening, she sent him the pictures.

“Special thank you for India Gate time,” she wrote. “It was great.”

It was one of the few moments she had offered direct appreciation, and to him, it mattered deeply.

Their days continued in this rhythm. At times, they worked in parallel—he on his academic deadlines, she on her language classes and university coordination. Yet their paths always intersected. She would knock on his door to check on progress; he would leave small notes of encouragement. They became—without fully acknowledging it—each other’s sanctuary in a foreign space.

But the city was not always kind.

One night, she took a tuktuk alone. The driver lost his way—thirty minutes in the dark, winding through unmarked roads, unsure of the route home.

When she finally returned, shaken but unharmed, he met her with concern.

“That was dangerous,” he said softly.

“I know,” she replied, exhausted. “No more tuktuks.”

He wanted to protect her, though he knew he could not always be there. She wanted to trust him, though she wasn’t ready to name what she felt.

In the space between what they could offer and what they needed, they found a fragile balance.

One evening, as she prepared for her flight home, she sent him a final i from her hostel window—the city glimmering in artificial light.

“I’m leaving tonight,” she said.

He responded quickly:

“I’m at the airport too.”

They would not meet again before departure. Their flights were separate. The goodbye would be virtual.

“Fly safe,” she messaged.

“Love you.”

He stared at the words. They were not spoken in passion, but with the soft finality of someone acknowledging what had been real.

In response, he said only,

“Thanks.”

He messaged her while preparing to board:

“I’m going, dear.”

Her reply came moments later: “Where?”

“Boarding.”

She hesitated before responding: “We are about to come to the airport.”

He paused. The timing was wrong. They would not meet again. Not in Delhi. Not like this.

Yet, she sent one last message:

“Love you.”

It was the second time she had said it. Quietly. Without flourish. But, it landed as heavily as if shouted from the terminal roof.

He stared at the message.

The word “love” had made its quiet entrance—too late to ask questions of it, too sincere to ignore.

It was Delhi that had held them. And now, it was Delhi they were both leaving behind.

They had never kissed. They had never even touched with intention. But they had shared something that many never find—a connection unspoken, yet unmistakable; a relationship without a name, yet not without meaning.

Their time in the city was over. But the city had changed them.

Departure has a particular silence. It is not the silence of peace, but the silence of endings.

Airports, with their fluorescent lights and slow-moving lines, stood as the final witnesses to chapters that close with quiet inevitability.

For them, Delhi’s departure gate became the threshold between what was and what could never be again.

The day had unfolded with nervous energy. Suitcases wheeled across tile floors, documents clutched in hand, and final hugs exchanged in brief, unsatisfying gestures.

The international training program had ended, and with it, the thin but luminous thread that had bound their daily routines together.

They spoke less that morning, but everything in their manner suggested awareness. Each glance, each word carried the subtle weight of farewell.

They had grown accustomed to proximity, to expectation, to the comfort of knowing the other was somewhere nearby.

Now, that presence was evaporating hour by hour.

Their flight paths would part within hours—her toward Moscow, him toward Accra.

The same sky above, but worlds apart.

Later, he wrote:

“I will see you soon.”

Though they both knew the logistical improbability of that promise, neither corrected the illusion. Some truths are too delicate to be measured by feasibility.

On the plane, he looked out at the tarmac, the city lights beneath him fading into distance. He thought of the first time he had seen her in the corridor—confident, reserved, with that peculiar mixture of distance and warmth.

He had not expected anything. Not friendship. Not care. Certainly not the slow, quiet pull that would eventually make her absence feel unbearable.

She, somewhere above another continent, cried silently in a taxi.

The tears were not dramatic. They were, in a way, inevitable. The kind that surface when something real has ended before it was ever fully understood.

Back in her home city, she took a photo of the snow from her window and sent it to him.

“It started to snow again,” she wrote.

In response, he sent an i of the Ghanaian road: warm, crowded, familiar.

They were home, yet neither felt entirely returned.

That night, as she lay in her childhood bed, she messaged again:

“I won’t forget. Ever.”

He replied:

“I will not forget you either.”

And that was it.

No final vows. No defined expectations.

Just two people, each changed by the other, retreating into the places they had come from—with hearts now carrying an unfamiliar ache.

It was not a conclusion.

It was a quiet sunset, witnessed from different skies.

Two Worlds Apart

Distance reveals what presence often hides. In the stillness that followed their return to separate countries, the connection they had built—tentative, tender, and largely unspoken—was subjected to the scrutiny of silence. No longer supported by shared surroundings or daily interaction, what remained was memory, desire, and the fragile thread of conversation that digital connection allows.

Morning greetings turned into brief reflections on daily life. She spoke of the cold, of the adjustment back to her university, of the train ride from Moscow to Smolensk. He responded with updates from the road, from the classroom, from Sunyani—where the heat bore down and the noise was comfortingly familiar.

But even as they spoke, something had shifted. The rhythm was no longer effortless.

She became cautious. Her tone, once playful and spontaneous, now held restraint. She answered his expressions of affection with politeness rather than warmth. Her words, though never unkind, suggested hesitancy. He, on the other hand, grew more open. Perhaps emboldened by absence, perhaps pressured by longing—he began to say more than he had before.