Running Into Your First Love.

I ran into my first love the other day. Not like ran into like “Hey, how’ve you been all these years!? I mean I literally ran into her. In the street. I was texting about a Greggs sausage roll, as you do, and she was texting about her dog’s Instagram account. As you do apparently! We collided like two apps that forgot they were in real life.

She said, “Oh my god, Jim?”  

I said, “No, but I wish I was. That guy had punchlines like vending machines press a button, get a snack and a laugh.”

She looked at me like I was still the guy who wore socks with sandals and confidence. I said, “I’ve upgraded. Now I wear Crocs with shame.”

She asked what I’ve been up to. I said, “Mostly avoiding eye contact with my own reflection. And writing jokes that only make sense if you’re sleep-deprived and mildly lactose intolerant.”

She said, “You're still a comedian?”  

I said, “Well you know, but now I do it in the mirror. My audience is me, and he’s a tough crowd. He keeps asking for refunds and throwing existential dread.”

I asked her what she’s been doing. She said, “I’m a life coach now.”  

I said, “That’s cool. I’m a death couch. I just sit there and wait for my dreams to expire.”

She laughed. I said, “That’s the nicest sound I’ve heard since my microwave said ‘ding’ and I remembered I had leftovers.”

Then she said, “We should catch up sometime.”  

I said, “We just did. I’m emotionally winded.”

She walked away, and I realised: Running into your first love is like finding an old record. It’s nostalgic, slightly warped, and you’re not sure if Side B is still playable. But you listen anyway, just to hear the static between the songs.

And that’s when I tripped over a curb and remembered: love hurts. But so do pavements.