The Night He Took My Virginity
I sit there on the porch, journal in my lap, staring at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something easier. I can’t tell if I’m writing to remember him or to forget him.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, I don’t ignore it. I glance. It’s Cal, my best friend.
Pack, bitch. London waits for no one.
I smile. Barely. Then shove the journal into my backpack, push open the front door, and head back inside.
My room’s a mess. Suitcase open, nothing inside. Outfits scattered like a clothing bomb went off. I try to fold a hoodie, then stop. It's his hoodie. The gray one. The one he was wearing the night he....
I drop it on the bed and sit down hard, palms against my knees, chest tight. I’ve been putting this off all day. Not the packing. Not the leaving.
The remembering.
Because some memories deserve to be left untouched. Like museum glass, you don’t press too hard. You just stand there and admire, and ache, and move on.
But I can’t move on until I go back. One more time.
My eighteenth birthday
Luke didn’t say it was a date. Not out loud.
He texted me the week before. Said his parents were flying to Hawaii for their anniversary. Said he’d have the whole place to himself. Then he added:
Don’t make plans Friday. I’ve got something in mind.
I told him I had work that night. He told me to call out. He never asked like a boyfriend would. Never begged. Just said it like it was obvious I’d come. And he was right.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
I’d never told anyone how badly I wanted that night to be something. Something more than just a hookup. More than sweaty palms and stolen kisses and unspoken rules. I wanted to be his, fully. I wanted it to mean something. Even if we never said the word love.
Even if we weren’t a thing.
When I got to his house, the lights were dim. One lamp in the living room, the big one by the fireplace. He opened the door in sweats and that gray hoodie, the sleeves pushed up. His hair was messy, like he’d showered and let it air dry.
“Happy birthday,” he said, soft smile on his face.
I don’t know what I was expecting. A dumb card? A wink and a blowjob?
Instead, he let me in and everything smelled like cinnamon. I figured it was a candle, but then I saw the plate on the coffee table. A slice of cake. From that café. The one I kept mentioning but never thought he actually remembered.He lit a single candle and said, “Make a wish.”
I looked at him. This beautiful, frustrating, impossible boy standing there with cake and my favorite movie already queued up. And I wished for him.
Then I blew out the candle.
He didn’t touch me at first. Not during the movie. Not even when our legs touched under the blanket. We just sat there by the couch, side by side, me trying not to freak out, him pretending this was just a chill hang.
Halfway through the movie, he turned and looked at me.“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he said.
I turned to him. “What?”
He reached out, brushed a thumb against my cheek.
“This.”
And he kissed me.
Not like he did in the locker room. Not like behind the shed or in his truck after practice. This kiss was different. Slower. Focused. Like he had nowhere else to be. Like I was the only thing that mattered in that moment.
His hand cupped my jaw. His tongue was warm and slow and soft. My body went weightless. When we pulled apart, I think I whispered, “Why are you being like this?”
He didn’t answer. Just took my hand and stood up.
He led me to his bedroom.
I’d been there before. We used to play Xbox on the floor, eat snacks, argue over game scores. But now everything looked different. The bed was made. The curtains drawn. The room quiet in a way that felt intentional.
He shut the door and turned to face me.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. But I didn’t pull away. “I want to.”
My hands were shaking. My heart was racing. But I wanted this. Him. All of it.
He kissed me again. Harder this time. And I let him.
We moved slow. Carefully. His hands slid under my shirt, lifting it over my head. Then his. I could barely breathe. His chest was tan and broad, muscles flexing slightly every time he moved. I reached up to touch him, fingers trailing along the line down his abs, and he hissed in a breath.
“You sure?” he asked, again.
I nodded.
“Never done this before,” I admitted. “Like… all the way.”
He stepped closer, kissed my temple. “Me neither. With a guy.”
That made something loosen in my chest. I wasn’t alone.
He laid me down on the bed and climbed over me, straddling me gently, his weight heavy in the best way. We kissed for a long time. Tongues brushing, lips parting, hands learning each other’s skin.
He didn’t rush. He undressed me piece by piece, looking at me like I was something sacred. I tried not to hide my face. Tried not to flinch when I got exposed.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
I moaned when he kissed my chest. My stomach. The inside of my thighs. Every part of me felt like it was waking up for the first time.
When he pressed a lubed finger inside me, I gasped.
“Just relax,” he said, voice low, mouth against my neck. “I’ll go slow.”
And he did.
Every step of it, he was careful. Asking. Listening. Adjusting. Until the moment he finally slid in slowly and my whole body arched under him. It hurt, at first. But I wanted to take it. I wanted to feel him like that. Closer than anyone had ever been.
He leaned down, forehead pressed against mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Don’t stop.”
And he didn’t.
He rocked into me gently, then deeper, the bed creaking softly beneath us. My legs wrapped around his waist. Our hands tangled. Our breath synced. He kissed me through it. Held me through it. Made me feel more real than I ever had.
I came first. Messy. Silent. His name bitten into my lip.
He kept going, moaning quietly, sweat on his back, jaw tight. When he came, it was with a grunt and a kiss against my neck, his hands cradling my face like he never wanted to let go.
After, we lay there. in nothing but our underwear. Tangled. Silent.
The only sound was our breathing.
I thought he’d pull away. Make a joke. Say something to undo the softness. But he didn’t. He kissed my forehad. Tucked the blanket around us. Wrapped himself around me like I was home.
“You okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.
“Yeah,” I said. “Better than okay.”
He smiled into my hair. “Good.”
I fell asleep with his arm across my stomach and his breath warm against my neck.
It was the first time I felt completely held.
The next morning, he made pancakes. Burned them, of course. We ate shirtless at the counter, legs brushing, shoulders bumping. He acted like we were something. Like I was his.
Even if he never said it out loud.
And for a while, I believed that maybe we could be. That the world would bend for us. That maybe, if we just kept choosing each other, we could make it work.
I was wrong.
But that night...that night...I wasn’t.
That night, he was mine.
I blink out of the memory.
Back in my room, the clock ticks past 2AM. I’m sitting on the floor now, knees tucked to my chest, Luke’s hoodie beside me like it’s waiting to be worn.I pick it up. Bury my face in it. It still smells faintly like him. Like that night.
Like the version of me I don’t know how to let go of.
Tomorrow, I leave for College.
Late night flight. Three checked bags and a heart that still doesn’t know how to pack this away.
I zip the suitcase, hoodie carefully packed at the bottom.
One last thing of his.
And maybe, that’s all I’ll ever get.
The Last Time I Saw Him
I barely slept.
By the time my alarm buzzed, I had been lying in bed for hours, eyes fixed on the ceiling, sheets tangled around my legs. My suitcase sat zipped in the corner. Passport tucked in the front pocket. Hoodie packed at the bottom where I could not see it but still felt it somehow.
My flight was at night. One more day.
Cal texted me first.
You awake?
I walked over without replying. He lived two streets over. It was early morning , the sky a pale gray, the kind of light that slips in gently before the sun shows itself. The neighborhood was quiet, wrapped in that hush that makes everything feel suspended. His porch light was on. I didn’t bother knocking.
He opened the door and pulled me into a hug before I could say anything.“You good?” he asked against my shoulder.
I didn’t answer right away. I just stood there, breathing in the familiar smell of his house, the faint cologne he always over-sprayed, the cinnamon from the toaster in the kitchen.
He stepped back, narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”
I looked down.
“Troy.” He sounded… not angry exactly, just disappointed in me.
“He asked me to meet him,” I said. “Said it would be quick. Said he just wanted to say goodbye.”Cal let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, dude. What else is there to say?”
I shrugged. “I just… I want to see him one last time.”
“No, you don’t,” he said. “You think you do. But all he ever did was mess with your head. And now you’re leaving, finally getting out, and you’re letting him reel you back in for what? Closure? He doesn’t get to have that. He broke you.”
“He didn’t mean to,” I muttered.
Cal looked at me for a long time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
He hugged me again. Tighter this time. “Just… be careful with your heart, okay?”
I nodded.
The football field looked smaller in the morning light. Dew clung to the grass. The goalposts stood still. Silent. Everything felt paused, like the world had not yet decided what it wanted to be today.
Luke stood near the sideline. Alone. Wearing his old varsity jacket, the one he wore the night he pulled me behind the shed after practice and kissed me so hard I forgot my name. I hated how much I loved seeing him in it. Him, here. Away from prying eyes. Like something out of a memory I hadn't asked to relive.He turned when he heard my footsteps. No smile. Just those familiar eyes, watching me like they always did...like he wanted to say something but never could.
“Hey,” he said softly.
I said nothing.
“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to see you. One more time.”
“So you texted me at five in the morning.”
He gave a weak laugh. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I looked over at the shed, a small smile tugging at my lips. “That’s where we kissed.”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking to the goalpost. “I remember.”
Silence settled between us. The kind that felt too loud.
“I wanted to tell you,” he said finally, “that I’m happy for you. I know you’ve been wanting this for a long time. Getting out. Starting over.”
“Is that what this is?” I asked. “A pep talk?”
He looked down. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”
“But it did.”
Luke looked up. “Troy....”“You're wearing the jacket I said I liked on you,” I said.
He glanced down, then back up at me. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I wore it for you.”
I swallowed. My throat already felt tight.
We stood in that stupid charged silence. The one we’d mastered. The one that always made me wonder if this time would be different.
I looked at him. Really looked at him. There were bags under his eyes. His hair still messed from sleep. He hadn’t come to impress me. He’d come because he needed to.
“I’m scared,” he said suddenly. “You know how much I… uh… like you.”
The words tumbled out quiet and clumsy. Not quite a confession. Not quite a denial. Just enough to let the door stay cracked.
But only because no one was around to hear it.
Luke was never good with feelings. Not unless we were in the dark. Not unless his hand was under my shirt. He loved me in the ways he could manage...fingers through my hair, late-night drives, falling asleep mid-sentence. But never in daylight. Never where it counted.
“I know you are,” I said. “But you don’t get to be scared and still have me.”
He stepped closer, his voice lower now. “Troy, I think about you all the time.”
“Then why did you let me walk away?” I whispered.
“I didn’t know how to stop you.”
“You didn’t even try.”
He reached for me. Fingers brushing mine.
My body betrayed me. I leaned forward, just a little. Enough for him to know I still wanted to be wanted. Enough to hope maybe he finally meant it.
His hand cupped my face.
I let him.
His thumb traced along my cheekbone like it was muscle memory. My eyes fluttered shut for half a second.
He leaned in.
But right before his lips touched mine, he pulled back, glancing toward the edge of the field. “Dude. Someone might see. The gardener’s usually up around this time.”
I opened my eyes. The air between us shattered.
There it was. The line. Always drawn. Always there when it mattered.
“Right,” I said quietly. “God forbid someone sees.”
“Troy,” he said. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it?” I asked, my voice cracking. “What was I to you? Am I just some blurry memory now? Some secret you’re relieved to be rid of?”
He looked like he wanted to say something.
He didn’t.
“You can’t even say it,” I whispered. “You can’t even name what we were.”
He closed the distance again. “Troy. I wanted you. I still do.”
My breath caught.
His hand found my jaw again, gentler this time. His eyes on mine. That same look I fell for a hundred times.
And then, he leaned in again.
I almost let him.
But I pulled back. This time, for me.
“Do you want to kiss me because you miss me,” I asked, “or because you’re about to lose me?”
He blinked. Hesitated. “I don’t know what I want,” he said.
I stepped away. Numb. “That’s not good enough anymore.”
“Troy…”
“You always do this,” I said, barely holding it in. “You pull me in just enough to keep me hoping. Then push me away before it means anything.”
“Troy, please.”
I shook my head and turned, already walking. My chest burned. My throat closed.
“Troy, don’t...please don’t do this,” he called after me.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
The tears came fast, hot and silent, falling before I made it off the field. I wiped them with the sleeve of my hoodie, quick and frantic, like I could erase what just happened if I moved fast enough.
But it didn’t work.
I cried all the way to the sidewalk. Quiet. Shoulders shaking. Because the truth hurt more than the lie: he loved me. I knew that. But he would never fight for me. And I couldn’t keep loving someone who only loved me in secret.
_______I didn’t go back to Luke’s. I didn’t answer when he texted. I didn’t open the voice note he sent an hour later. I couldn’t.
I walked home slowly, like I was hoping the day would stretch out and let me stay suspended in it a little longer. Like maybe I wouldn’t have to leave if the clock just froze. But time doesn’t do that. Not when you need it to.
My room was already half-packed. Walls bare. Closet hollow. I stared at the empty shelves like they were a body after someone moves out of it. The ghost of who I was here.
My mom tried to stay strong, but her eyes kept glancing at me like she was memorizing me. My dad didn’t say much, just carried my suitcase to the trunk and gave my shoulder a squeeze. That was how he said goodbye. Through weight, not words.
My little sister slipped a folded piece of paper into my jacket pocket when no one was looking. I didn’t read it. Not yet. Just pressed it to my chest for a second. Just held it.
The drive to the airport was quiet.
I watched the town blur past through the car window. The coffee shop. The gas station. The stoplight near the school where we used to sneak kisses in the backseat. Every place looked smaller now. Like it already knew I was leaving.
At the terminal, my mom finally cried. Full tears this time, arms wrapped tight around me like she was afraid I might disappear. “You’re going to do amazing,” she said, voice thick. “Just… don’t forget to eat.”
“I won’t,” I whispered.
My dad hugged me second. Pulled me in hard. “Make us proud, alright?”
I nodded.
My sister was last. No words. Just her pinky hooking mine like we used to do when we were little. I nearly broke.
But I didn’t.
I made myself walk. Through security. Past the gate. Every step a kind of grief. Every footfall echoing what I was leaving behind.
On the plane, I sat by the window and pressed my forehead to the glass. The sky outside was soft and blue. The clouds looked like they didn’t care about any of this. Like none of it mattered.
The seatbelt light flicked on. The engine hummed louder. The ground began to drift away.
And I thought of Luke.
Of his hand on my jaw. Of his mouth inches from mine. Of the words he never said, the name he never called me, the life he never let us have.
I thought of all the almosts. All the maybes. All the ways he could’ve loved me better but didn’t.
And I closed my eyes.
Because maybe this heartbreak was the price of freedom.
Maybe losing him was the cost of finding myself.
I exhaled.
The runway shrank behind me. The town disappeared under a sheet of clouds. The only thing ahead now was air and sky and whatever comes next.
I wasn’t running anymore.
I was walking into something new.
A different chapter.
And this time, I was the one choosing how it begins.
Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoyed the first three chapters of Summer After Him, the first arc of "Everything Meant Nothing"Now, the story moves forward. The next arc is called Halfway to Him. This chapter takes Troy across the ocean, into a new country, a new college, and a world full of unfamiliar faces; some of them a little too distracting. There’s homesickness, late-night chaos, and cereal eaten in nothing but a towel. But more than that, there’s a chance to start over.
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