The Story of Us

We weren't supposed to happen — and we did anyway.

It wasn’t typical or mundane. It was more than that.

You were feeling neglected. You were feeling alone. Even with all your responsibilities, and your lack of control, you were craving contact—some kind of love.

And there I was, for the very first time, free to look for someone. To look for real love. No motives, no agendas—just someone I could click with.

And that’s how it started.

A few messages here, a few messages there, and a lot of now and then.

Somehow, we found common ground when talking about certain things that interested us equally—life, burden, commitment, vows, and the pleasantries and disappointments that all together shape our existence.

It was relaxed. It wasn’t suspicious. It was organic and natural in the way we interacted and in our honesty. We weren’t afraid to say the truth, and we both condemned lies alike.

There was a sense of familiarity and insight that kept the dialogue easy to follow, easy to understand where everything was coming from. One side hungry to release what the mind was translating, the other side thirsty for input given with care.

That was us. That was the beginning of us.

Sometimes I was the one waiting for a reply, and you didn’t know how to say—or simply forgot about us—because of a meeting. Your responsibilities came first, and you couldn’t always articulate the “I’m sorry, I must go.”

It’s kind of funny to remember now, your responses when you would say, “I thought I did.”

I didn’t mind. It was you, and that part was included in the “you” I was falling for.

I never thought about the visual part of you. You had a picture of the ocean in your profile, and I had a sunset in mine. I loved the water, and you loved sunsets—and that was enough for us.

For months, we gave each other our deepest thoughts—our fears, morals, virtues, ethics—to a person we had no real way of knowing was even real, maybe just waiting for the right moment to slide away.

After a while, I got curious about your voice—how you sounded, how you pronounced words differently than I do. And that’s how the idea of a phone call came to our minds.

You asked if we could talk,
and I gave you my number.

I will never forget that night.

It was seven in the evening. I was in my room, walking back and forth, going in and out of the bathroom like I was trying to find the best connection—not just to listen, but to feel your voice.

A voice that still soothes me when its memory finds me.

I asked you to read me something. You hesitated. You hated the sound of your voice. And I was melting because of it.

You said, “I only have work stuff.”

I said, “Read it, please.”

And you did.

I curled myself into one corner of the room, like those minutes meant I might never hear your voice again. I thanked you for it. And when we said goodbye, you sent me a kiss, which I returned almost immediately, feeling the warmth rise to my face.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

After so long, you were now a voice—not just words on a screen, not just sounds of sadness and despair somewhere on the other side of town.

The way you wrote to me after that… the feelings that started to grow inside you… the worries about the meaning of what we were doing—all at once, like a hurricane you know is coming.

I wrote you poems. You felt every word.

Time that was supposed to be for them was no longer for them.

The thought of me was in you, like a hope you forgot you had.

And I was feeling it too.

Every day, every message—it was reciprocal. A shared affection ready to be explored.

Then the day came when I finally found the courage to see your face.

I asked for a picture of yourself.

It took you thirty-eight tries to send me one.

Just imagine that for a moment.

Deep conversations. Shared thoughts. Telling ourselves this was nothing more than casual. Just two people exchanging ideas, talking about life, nature, pain, survival.

No expectations. No plans.

And there we were—writing emails, talking on the phone, without knowing how we looked in the real world. No height, no details, no features—just our thoughts, completely exposed.

And then I saw you.

And everything stopped.

I forgot everything we had talked about.

And to be honest, this is what I thought:

“I can’t. I just can’t. You deserve better. You can have whatever woman you want. I cannot compete with that.”

And I told you.

Because that’s what we did—we told each other everything.

You said you were not like that. You said you might look like that, but you were shy, respectful, and that kind of life wasn’t for you.

It wasn’t mine either.

So I believed you.

I was already in love with your voice—and now your face had a place in it too.

It felt like God had taken his time when making you. Even your ears were the perfect size for your face, your nose sharp and defined, your lips…

Those lips I devoured so many times.

And your scent…

No.

Not yet.

Because it took us a long time to decide when and where to meet.

We kept talking during your long drives. Sometimes you couldn’t, because of the problems you were facing. Your moods started to show more and more, but never enough to take away the need we had to talk to each other.

One day, I finally accepted.

It was a Sunday. A summer Sunday.

A day I will never forget.

I remember calling you over and over, asking what to wear—a dress or shorts.

“It’s hot. Wear shorts,” you said.

And I did.

I wanted to wash my hair, but I was afraid it would look flat like it always does the day I wash it.

I was nervous. Insanely nervous.

Every time before, when you asked me to meet, I said no.

You asked what I was afraid of.

Trying to calm me down, you said, “We’ve seen pictures, we know our voices. Now it’s just chemistry. I know I’m going to like you. Don’t worry.”

And I had already sent you pictures of myself—not selfies, but the best ones I could find.

You admired my body. My legs. My lips.

And then, there we were.

It was still daylight, around six in the evening. You parked on one side of the park. I was on the other.

You sat on a bench and waited.

I walked toward you, still on the phone.

You were tall. So tall that when you hugged me, you lifted me. My sunglasses fell off my face.

You apologized.

We sat down.

That bench became ours.

We talked. We touched each other’s legs while talking.

It felt natural. Like it was meant to be.

A moment in time that no one could tell us was wrong.

And maybe we couldn’t see it yet—but everything started there.

I waited for the right moment and kissed you.

You said, “Thank you.”

And you kissed me back.

I don’t know how long we were there.

At some point, I was sitting on your lap, and we were kissing, unaware of everyone around us.

A man walked by with his dog and said what a beautiful couple we were.

We laughed.

If only he knew we had just met.

I believed in fairytales.

You believed in reality dressed as chains.

Me: My prince had arrived.
You: There’s always a villain in every story.

We didn’t believe in happy endings.

But we hoped.

That kind of hope that strangles you while you hold onto it.

We kept going back to that park.

Talking for hours. Kissing for hours.

One night, it rained unexpectedly. My legs were wet, and you touched them like something magical might come from them.

The passion was real.

Not lust.

Something deeper.

For the first time in my life, I was able to give unconditionally.

Not because I had to—but because I wanted to.

It wasn’t asked.

It was given.

I was recognized without words, without obligation.

It was me—finally there, feeling with every inch of my skin.

And that was as dangerous as it was incredible.

Two souls lost in a world of madness, swallowed by the rules of society, forced to live a life without love or laughter.

Even if I had known then that you would be the one to break my heart, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Not because I would want to relive the pain—

but because what we lived was extraordinary.

Like being told your whole life the sun is blue…

and one day realizing it’s gold.

Feeling both the warmth of the truth and the pain of having believed something else for so long.

That’s what you gave me.

The knowledge of myself.

Of who I am—without titles, without labels.

Just… love.

Of course, our first time loving one another was more than magical. It was as if we were suspended in midair by a soft, almost invisible net around us. That moment—when looking into your eyes felt like being inside your soul. We were interconnected by something bigger than us, and the feeling remains indescribable, inexpressible, undefinable, like the force of rain when it comes during a sunny day.

We bonded magnificently.

We became each other’s drug, each other’s fix, a necessity we couldn’t live without.

Then the distractions became obvious.
The wrongdoing became the friction that tore us apart.

We had our ups and downs. His scrambled, tortured brain couldn’t comprehend or differentiate between reality and what we were trying to do. There were too many obstacles, too many futures at stake.

We couldn’t.

There was something in both of us screaming from the inside out:

We shouldn’t.

And after years of broken promises, false assurances, and lack of time, it all made us bitter.

We were happy when the world stopped existing around us.
We were happy when we forgot the problems we were facing.
But we couldn’t pretend anymore.

The world existed.
The problems were there.
The lack of time was real.

So we gave up.

He decided to leave without warning, and to be honest, I was already planning my way out carefully.

One thing no one can deny:

It was love.

In its purest form.

Maybe in another time, another life, this would have worked. But unfortunately, we were here and now—him with his baggage, and me with my uncertainty and my need for more.

Everything ends, they say.

And this, for as magical as it was, had an ending too.

At least I can go through life saying that I loved once, and it was love.

Most people leave this world never tasting what it really means to love and be loved.