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.
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.
