They say you never forget your first love. I used to think that was just a cliché, something people said when they ran out of better words. But with Bethy, those little moments burned themselves into me like ink on paper. Even now, I can close my eyes and replay them with painful clarity.
The mornings were my favorite. She'd always claim she hated waking up early, yet she somehow made it worth the struggle. I'd buy her coffee before lectures-two sugars, extra cream. The barista once joked that I must be dating someone spoiled, but I didn't care. Bethy's smile when I handed her that cup was worth more than anything. She'd lean on my shoulder, sipping slowly, then say in that teasing voice of hers, "You're going to ruin me, Joe. What will I do if you're not here to bring me coffee someday?"
"Don't worry," I told her once. "I'll be here forever."
At the time, I believed it.
Campus life with her was like living inside a dream where the world only had two people. We'd sneak out after classes to sit on the lawn, sprawled across the grass with her head in my lap, my fingers tracing idle patterns through her hair. Sometimes she read aloud from whatever novel she was obsessed with, her voice soft and melodic, drifting into the golden haze of afternoon. Other times we didn't talk at all; we just existed, two hearts beating in sync.
There was one night we got caught in the rain. We'd been walking back from a party, laughing at how terrible the DJ was, when the sky opened up. Everyone else scattered for cover, but Bethy pulled me into the middle of the downpour, her eyes glowing with mischief.
"Dance with me," she said, spinning in circles like the storm was her stage.
I tried to protest, but she grabbed my hands, tugging me into her rhythm. My shoes squelched in the puddles, my shirt clung to my skin, but none of it mattered. She was laughing, twirling, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I pulled her close, kissed her rain-drenched lips, and thought, This is it. This is forever.
We ended up in my dorm later that night, soaked to the bone, warming each other under a single blanket. She fell asleep in my arms, whispering something about never letting go. I held her tighter, my heart so full it hurt.
Bethy had that effect on me. She made the ordinary extraordinary. Even a late-night study session turned into magic. She'd steal my notes, doodle hearts in the margins, then pout when I scolded her. "You love it," she'd say, sticking her tongue out. And she was right. I did.
I loved everything about her-the way she tied her hair with a pencil when she couldn't find a clip, the way she hummed songs under her breath, the way her eyes softened when she looked at me like I was her safe place.
She told me once, "Joe, you're the only person who sees me."
I didn't know what she meant at the time. I thought it was a compliment, proof that what we had was rare and unshakable. I didn't realize it was also a warning-that maybe there were parts of her I couldn't see, no matter how hard I tried.
One evening, she invited me to her apartment to cook dinner together. It was supposed to be simple-pasta and a cheap bottle of wine-but she lit candles and played soft music, turning it into something that felt like a scene from a movie. I watched her move around the kitchen, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove.
"You're staring," she teased, glancing at me over her shoulder.
"I can't help it," I said. "You're beautiful."
She blushed, trying to hide it with a laugh, but I caught the flicker of something in her eyes-something tender, almost vulnerable. She set the spoon down, walked over, and wrapped her arms around my neck.
"Promise me," she whispered. "Promise you won't ever stop loving me."
It was such a strange request at the time. We were young, in love, with the whole world ahead of us. Of course I promised. I promised with every beat of my heart. I promised with the kiss that followed, with the way I lifted her onto the counter and held her like she was everything I'd ever wanted.
That night, we didn't just cook dinner. We built a memory I thought would last a lifetime.
But memory is cruel. It plays back the sweetest moments long after the sweetness is gone, twisting the knife deeper with every replay.
Back then, though, I didn't know about knives or betrayal. I only knew love. I only knew Bethy.
And in those days, when forever still felt real, I believed nothing could take her from me.