First Love: The Crack That Became Light By Mu Sim

Preface

This piece was never meant to prove anything. No choice vindicated, no decision justified—only the trace of one still-beating heart. It is merely the record of a single soul who could do nothing but stop—right there, right then. The wound never vanished, the memory never faded. But as time moved, they stayed—in other forms. This is not a story of first love, but of the heart that had to keep living after love was gone. And if you, too, dear reader, harbor a memory still unspoken, may these pages become a place where that silence can rest beside you—unexiled, unfeared.

PART I. Pain The God I Never Believed In / The Moment Desire Stilled

I did not believe in God. At least, I thought I didn’t—back then. My reasons for going to church were simple: Easter eggs, choco pies, friends, laughter, and the pretty girls. God was in none of them.

That day, we had made a promise, and at last, we were alone. Desire was there—undeniable, without shame. It was nature itself. And yet before that nature, I knelt, overcome by a fear I could not name. It was a prayer—perhaps a silent one. No theme, no words, no answer—but something was there, palpable in the air.

“Stand not in the hollow place where the rainbow once stood—but where it still shines the brightest.”

As I knelt, she reached out, her hand tender upon my head. “Do not stop in the place of darkness where the sun has fallen, but where its last light lingers… Lord, do as You will.”

When I opened my eyes, I led her toward the light. There, beneath the sun, she smiled softly. “Those who like flowers,” she said, “pluck them. But those who love them—wish them happiness instead.”

Perhaps what I heard was, “I was afraid too. Thank you.”

That day, I learned to pray. I learned how to stop—before desire. And even now, I sometimes ask myself: Was it a choice without regret? I still cannot answer. I only know it was a choice made for her.

PART II. Darkness

She lived in a world where things came easily—cars, sleek phones, and the certainty of tomorrow. Mine was a world of hesitation. I wanted to move forward, but saw only my own inadequacy. Love is a feeling shared, but life walks on uneven ground. That day, I learned: Love begins in the heart, but walks with conditions.

We did not fight. We did not scream. We simply stopped seeing the same horizon. Partings, I thought, would always be dramatic—but reality was quiet, and therefore more painful. No words were spoken, and so none could be refuted. Was my surrender cowardice, or kindness? I still do not know.

People believed I was fine. I acted the part. I laughed, I worked, I survived each day. I thought if I did not speak my sorrow, it would cease to exist. But each night, the unspoken returned—clearer than before. In the mirror, a sadness without reason looked back at me. No particular day. No particular memory. Just sadness, waiting, patient and silent. And I—too afraid to face it, too fragile to look into the eyes of my own unhealed truth.

PART III. Light

At some point, I realized—those sorrows no longer hurt. They were still vivid, but no longer sharp. Time had not erased anything. It had only changed the shape. The saying “This too shall pass” does not mean forgetting. It means: no pain is eternal, no joy everlasting. Everything passes, like wind across an open field.

I watched that transformation and whispered, “Maybe time does not erase events, but changes hearts.”

Before sleep, I often return to the same scenes—her voice beginning, not merely speaking, but singing, her story of last night’s dream like an aria—a silken thread of song spun across the quiet room. Our hands had once trembled together on a rattling bus, our hearts beating like wild instruments out of tune, yet perfectly true. That memory shone like a star in the night sky at the very moment I was breaking down.

To visit it—after a weary day—was my quiet joy. At first, I tried to recall it through moving images and sounds—through photos, recordings, voices that could take me back into the memory itself. But later, they remained like stars—no devices required. Now, one small button of memory—and light fills the dark. Some memories, I learned, are switches of light.

I still cannot say that I believe in God. And yet, some nights, I think of true prayer—what it means, and how it begins. Prayers that start in resentment turn into gratitude; a prayer asking for blessing must one day turn into “Lord, do as You will.”

I recall my final prayer—Lord, do as You will—and wonder still how one so impoverished in spirit could have said it. Perhaps, it was her prayer that carried mine.

PART IV. After The Return of a First Love, Like a Miracle

Years passed. I heard she had divorced. Then that she was looking for me. Later, I learned—it had been deliberate.

I joked to my friends, “She cast me aside so easily when she left. Now she comes back—only to stir my heart again.” A careless joke, and yet a shield—to protect her dignity, and perhaps my own.

Her first words were, “Before I die, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I left out how hard it had been for me. Instead, I said, “When I think of you, I smile. You’re a good memory.” You need not be sorry.

Later, I wrote a sentence for her—and for myself: “I was the one who despaired alone, and gave up alone.”

When those words came, I knew they might be the truth. What I had turned from was not only sorrow, but truth itself. Rather than blame my surrender, I chose the safer wound—to believe I had been abandoned.

And then, I saw it: perhaps love’s ending is not an act of leaving, but of transforming. So now I ask myself, again and again—Do I sometimes discard people to protect the memory of love?

When she said, “I’m sorry,” I wanted to tell her: Let it come and go.

For that is what I learned—that sorrows, unhidden, harden slowly into pearls, filling the darkness with quiet light.

Epilogue

Perhaps this story has not truly ended. Time moves forward, but the heart—it often returns to the places it once stood. There, pain no longer reigns, but neither has it vanished. Wounds are not erased; they are renamed. Sorrow, now luminous, has found another seat.

I am still uncertain about all my choices. But I know—because of them, I am not the same. What I did not hold onto—was preserved. What I let go—remained. I no longer seek proof. I only wish to see time as it was. And in that time, to recall the one sentence that kept me alive:

Let it come and go.

Each time I stand before those words, I grow quiet. That quietness is proof that I have come a long way.

When you close this book, may one sentence, too, remain in your heart. A sentence that will not hold you, but will not leave you alone. That will be enough.