I never considered myself a romantic. In fact, for most of my life, I walked through relationships with a certain pragmatic approach, always keeping emotional involvement at arm’s length. As a child, my parents’ narratives didn’t include fairy tales or stories of soulmates. Instead, they spoke of love as a partnership, filled with practicalities and shared responsibilities. It was something grounded in reality and far removed from the fickle, unpredictable nature of passion and desire.
Then he entered my life—a brief encounter that was supposed to mean nothing, but it ended up carving an imprint on my soul. It started on an ordinary day, during one of those tedious conferences I attended for work. I remember gripping my tea, trying to seem interested as the speaker droned on about quarterly profits. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and as I turned, there he was, smiling in a way that seemed to light up the dim convention hall.
The days that followed were a blur. We didn’t exchange many words, but his presence lingered, always a few steps away. I found myself looking for him in the crowd, glancing around to catch a glimpse of that reassuring smile. When our paths crossed again in the hotel lobby, it would have been simple to walk past each other, as one does to a stranger staying in the same temporary lodging. Instead, there was a pause, a shared acknowledgment, and an inexplicable understanding.
Despite the briefness of our interactions, there was a connection, intense and ineffable—a subtle force that pulled us closer and shifted my understanding of what it meant to truly see someone. He listened differently, not with his ears but with his being, making me feel like the world was less chaotic, my thoughts less tangled. I started sharing parts of myself I hadn’t shown to anyone, not even those I had known for years.
The conference concluded, and with it came the end of our brief intersecting timelines. Exchange of contact details seemed so trivial in the vastness of what we had shared, but astonishingly, we didn’t even do that. It was as if we had silently agreed that what we knew of one another in those precious hours would remain locked in our hearts, untainted by the specter of daily life and its intrusions.
Back home, I waited for an impossible phone call. Days turned to weeks, and the hope in my chest faded—a candle left burning until only a thin string of smoke remained. I carried on, yet the routine of my existence felt slightly askew, like a picture frame hanging slightly off-center. I often caught myself wondering what could have been, had we not let the moment slip quietly between our fingers.
Time softened the edges of my memory of him, but something inside remained restless and unsettled. Life went on with its usual demands. Work was the same, family gatherings predictable, and my heart grew accustomed to the familiar ache of wanting something undefined, something possibly unattainable. I never told anyone about him, keeping the encounter secret like a precious relic, fragile and private.
A pivotal moment came years later. I learned through mutual acquaintances that he had passed away unexpectedly. Hearing this felt like a punch to the gut, sharp and immediate. In that instant, something was extinguished inside me—a hope I hadn’t realized I was still harboring, quashed forever. Memories flooded back, unbidden. I could see his smile, hear his laugh, and feel the warmth of those lost days.
Confronted with the finality of his absence, I was left to grapple with questions that had no answers. What if, at that critical juncture, one of us had taken a step forward instead of allowing fear to pull us back? A life, a world where he and I explored what lay beyond those silent understandings collapsed into speculation and regret.
I began to understand that he had been a mirror, reflecting parts of myself that I was hesitant to acknowledge. Through him, I saw my own vulnerabilities and fears, juxtaposed with possibilities for happiness I never dared to entertain. Dwelling on what might have been did nothing to fill the void, but slowly I discovered that embracing these realizations could instigate new beginnings.
So, where did all of this leave me? As time wore on and the rawness of my grief faded, I started to recognize the lesson he had imparted—no matter how transient the connection, no matter how brief the meeting, the impact could reverberate through the rest of my life. I had to face the future knowing that somewhere along the way, I lost not just him, but a part of myself that yearned for more than what life had provided.
This doesn’t mean I begrudge the life I live today, filled with people I care about and a career I’m proud of. It means that I strive to hold on to openness, to remain receptive to those fleeting moments that others might dismiss as inconsequential. Life is crafted from such moments, the essence of which awakens us, moves us, changes us if we’re willing to let them.
In the end, I never knew him fully, and he never knew me beyond that obscure intersection of time and space. But he showed me what it can mean to truly see someone and the power in glimpsing a life unrealized. Love, in all its elusive and multifaceted forms, leaves marks that time may not erase. The greatest tragedy may be that he never came back, yet the greatest gift is in knowing what awaited if he had. So now, I choose to cherish those hours, unbroken by whatever lay beyond. They remain untarnished and, in their purity, I find solace.
