jordan pulse -

There are moments in life that time can never erase, no matter how many years pass. Some memories remain alive as if they happened only yesterday. Among them, first love stands tall—an emotional mountain unshaken by storms, its colours never fading beneath the weight of age and experience.

I was a teenager when the landline phone rang one afternoon. I was home alone. I picked up, and a warm female voice slipped into my ear, asking for “Rima.” We had no Rima, but fate knew exactly how to begin its story. We spoke for just a few minutes, but that was enough to spark a fire that would burn for years.

Her words flowed like music, her angelic laughter enough to make the world seem brighter. I would invent excuses to prolong our conversations, joking, stalling, teasing—until a passing coincidence grew into a true love, spun between a telephone line and two young hearts untouched by the heaviness of life.

I spent countless nights on the roof of our house, lying by the water tank. Sometimes I would sneak down to the ledge outside the guest room window, two floors up, where the telephone wires connected. With a quiet snip, I’d cut the line to our house so no one could interrupt us, and breathe in her whispers until dawn. At those moments, I felt I owned the whole world—because I owned her voice.

But, as with many first loves, ours wasn’t meant to last. Time passed, her fate was sealed in a traditional marriage, and she left for a distant land, leaving behind only the echo of memories.

Today, as I recall that story, I stumbled upon a news piece about a jealous Indian lover who climbed an electric pole and cut power to an entire village because his beloved’s phone was busy too long. The story made me laugh—and it sparked a comparison. He plunged a village into darkness to speak with his love, while I merely cut the phone line in my house, so I could lose myself in her voice beneath the moonlight.

The difference between us is simple, yet profound: he drowned a village in darkness, while I drowned alone in the darkness of first love.

A love small in its gestures, yet vast in its madness.

– Atef Abou Hajar