It all began when I was in class 9. He was my best friend’s cousin, and even though we were from different schools, fate had other plans. We met online—on Instagram, of all places. I don’t even remember who followed whom first, but what I do remember is how naturally we started talking. It started with a few likes, then a reply to a story, and slowly, the conversations began.

His name was Robert.

At first, we were just friends. Nothing serious, nothing romantic—just two people from different worlds slowly orbiting each other. But as days passed, we began sharing bits of our lives. We talked about our dreams, our fears, our favorite songs, the things that made us laugh, and the things that made us cry. We found comfort in each other.

By October 2023, it became clear—we liked each other. It wasn’t said immediately, but it was there, in every late-night message, in every “good morning” and “sleep well” that we sent. It was there in the way he remembered the smallest things I told him, and in how he never failed to check in on me when I had a rough day.

Then came October 18. He asked if I wanted to go see the sunrise at Tlangnuam View. Just the two of us. I said yes, but I was so nervous. I’m a shy person by nature, and being alone with him for the first time made my heart race. He, on the other hand, was calm, cool, and collected—as always. The morning air was crisp, the sky painted in soft orange and pink. We didn’t talk much, but the silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was peaceful. I think that’s when I started to really fall.

A few days later, we went for another sunrise trip—this time with his best friend, my best friend, and his cousin. It was livelier, full of laughter and small conversations. Yet even then, our eyes kept finding each other. He didn’t talk much, and neither did I. But the presence was enough.

He was a biker boy. There was something thrilling about it, riding behind him, my arms gently wrapped around his waist, feeling the wind brush against my face. After one of our rides, something scary happened. We were on a narrow road when a drunk man driving recklessly almost crashed into us. He blamed us, even though we had done nothing wrong. Robert, who was usually so composed, nearly lost his temper. I saw the anger in his eyes, the way his hands clenched. But I stopped him. My hands were trembling, but I told him not to argue—because no matter how wrong the man was, he was still our elder. Robert calmed down.

When we reached New Capital, he pulled over. He looked at me with concern and asked, “Are you okay?” He apologized for what had happened and asked again if I was really alright. That moment sealed something in my heart. He was gentle, respectful, and deeply caring. The kind of boy you’d only read about in stories.

I gave him a nickname—“Lalcareful.” He was my story boy. My main character.

But things weren’t perfect.

On October 28, we had a small argument about his ex-girlfriend. Nothing explosive, just a disagreement—but it left a crack. Our conversations started to get shorter, fewer, and far between.

Then came November 5. After school, my best friend—his cousin—invited me to their house. A few of our friends came over too, and we ended up playing cards together. But my mind wasn’t there. It was with Robert. I kept checking my phone, hoping for his name to pop up. Hours passed, and I couldn’t wait any longer.

So I sent the message.

“If you couldn’t get over your ex-girlfriend, then go back to her. It’s okay if that makes you happier. I wish you good luck, and thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Goodbye.”

It broke me to write that. I tried to move on. I deleted his contact number, trying to keep my distance. But I couldn’t delete our chats. I kept them. I reread them. Over and over.

December passed slowly. I missed him more than I could admit. I smiled less, laughed less. Then, in the middle of January, I saw his name on my screen again. A message. My heart stopped.

He asked for forgiveness.

I forgave him—immediately. But I was still hurt. At first, I kept some distance, replied late, stayed guarded. But slowly, the wall I built began to crumble. Our conversations grew longer, deeper, and more frequent. I could feel us becoming us again.

And on March 21, 2024, we made it official.

That was the day I felt whole again.

It was a cold, windy morning when he called.

"Let’s go to Hmuifang," Robert said casually, like he was asking me to come downstairs, not to ride hours up a mountain with him.

“Hmuifang?” I repeated, unsure if I heard him right. “Like... the real one?”

He chuckled over the phone. “The one and only. Sunrise view. Just you and me.”

My heart skipped. No one had ever asked me to do something like that. Especially not a boy like him — cool, confident, a biker boy with his helmet always tucked under one arm and wind in his voice. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel excited… and nervous. I’d never been on a bike trip that far, let alone alone with a boy. But something in his voice made me say yes.

The next morning, the sky still dark and scattered with stars, I met him at our usual spot. He pulled up on his bike, black jacket zipped up to his neck, and his helmet balanced on the handlebar. He handed me an extra helmet and looked at me with a half-smile.

“You ready?”

I nodded, trying not to show how fast my heart was racing.

The engine roared to life beneath us. I clutched the sides of his jacket, hesitant at first, but as the wind rushed past and the sun started creeping over the hills, my grip tightened. I could feel the heat of his body through the fabric, his shoulders solid and comforting. I wanted that moment to last forever.

The road to Hmuifang was winding and wild, with sharp curves and sudden climbs. But he rode with confidence, weaving through turns like he’d memorized every inch. I watched the sky change colors above us — deep blue fading to orange, the fog lifting from the valleys.

When we finally reached the top, the view took my breath away. Mist curled around the hills, and the trees swayed softly in the cold breeze. There was something magical about standing there with him, just the two of us, surrounded by silence and sky.

We walked to the lookout tower — an old, weather-beaten structure that rose above the treetops. I hesitated at first, staring up at its wooden steps.

“Scared?” he asked, teasing.

“No,” I lied, and started climbing.

The wind was stronger up there. It whipped through my hair and made my hands tremble as I held onto the railings. I hadn’t dressed warmly enough, and I started to shiver. He noticed right away.

“You're cold,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I insisted, my teeth almost chattering.

Without a word, he took off his jacket and offered it to me. I shook my head. “You'll catch a cold.”

He smiled — that gentle, knowing smile that made my heart flutter. Then, without asking, he stepped behind me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and pulled me inside his jacket. My back pressed against his chest, his arms circled around me, warm and secure.

“There,” he whispered. “Now we’re both warm.”

I could hear his heartbeat. Slow, steady. My own felt like it was trying to jump out of my chest.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours. Not talking, just breathing in the cold morning air, watching the clouds drift by. It was the kind of moment I used to read about in books — the kind I thought only happened to other people. But it was happening to me. With him.

Later, we explored the area, walking along narrow paths lined with trees. He pointed out strange-shaped leaves and told me stories about the place, some of which I’m sure he made up. I laughed more than I had in weeks. He held my hand when the path got steep and kept looking back to check if I was okay.

“I like this,” I said at one point, quietly.

He looked at me, eyes soft. “Me too.”

On the way back down, we stopped at a little roadside shop for tea. The steam curled up between us, and he kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to.

By the time we reached the city, the sun was high and bright, the spell of the mountain slowly fading. He dropped me off near my place, took off his helmet, and leaned the bike on its stand.

“Thanks for today,” I said, clutching my bag like it would anchor me.

He looked at me for a long second. “Anytime.”

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny paper crane, and placed it in my hand. “For luck,” he said. “And maybe… for the next trip.”

I stood there as he drove away, wind trailing behind him, wondering how a single day could feel like forever.

It wasn’t just the trip. It was the way he made me feel like I belonged, like I was someone worth showing the world to. He made me feel like a main character in a story I never thought I’d live.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much when things changed.

But in that moment, I didn’t know what was coming. I didn’t know about the silence, the doubt, the goodbye waiting just a few months down the line. All I knew was that morning, that wind, that boy.

And the feeling of being held — really held — for the first time.