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 title. 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.