The day I had to leave came far too quickly.
On holidays, time has a cruel habit of speeding up just when you’ve found something that makes you wish it would stand still. I packed my things almost mechanically, unable to convince my heart that this was only a temporary goodbye.
We had plans. We kept telling each other we would meet again in October. It was a future close enough to feel certain, yet far enough away to hurt. I kept reminding myself there was no reason to turn my departure into a tragedy. Two months could pass quickly when two people wanted the same thing.
When the moment came to say goodbye, a fence stood between us. I can still picture that familiar figure on the other side. That gaze fixed on me. The way, for a few seconds, everything around us seemed to disappear. I blew kisses across the distance. I smiled. Maybe I even made a silly gesture, just to hide how difficult it was to leave.
And I didn’t turn back.
That is the sentence that has continued to hurt me. I didn’t turn back for one more hug. I didn’t run back. I didn’t try to make our final moment last a little longer. I believed October would give us enough time for all the hugs we hadn’t shared yet.
On the plane, or perhaps only after I arrived home, I began replaying the same scene in my mind.
The fence.
The eyes looking back at me.
The kisses blown through the air.
I told myself that next time, I wouldn’t rush. That next time, I would hold that person close without looking at the clock. That I would stay there a few seconds longer, without thinking about luggage, the journey ahead, or the people waiting for me. I didn’t know that memory could turn one small gesture into a room you return to night after night.
Later, I would wake from my sleep calling out a name, as though I could somehow change the distance between us simply by saying it aloud. As though my voice could reach beyond that fence. As though, if I called loudly enough, time might turn back a few seconds. But on that day, our goodbye still held hope.
It held imaginary tickets, plans, messages, and promises. We weren’t two people saying goodbye forever. We were two people who believed we were saying “see you soon.” And maybe that was exactly why I didn’t turn back. Because I didn’t know how to recognise a moment I would one day regret.
Because I didn’t know there were hugs you could miss without realising you had missed them. Because I was so certain there would be a next time. And if I had known how much that moment would haunt me, I would have turned back.
Without thinking.
Without rushing.
Just for one more hug.
To be continued…

That day, there was no obligation bringing us together.
It was a day off. A day when each of us could have gone about our own lives, rested, or done anything else.
And yet, someone chose to come and see me. I was waiting on a bench along the seafront, close to the water. I don’t know if I remember every detail of that afternoon, but I remember perfectly the moment I saw that familiar figure approaching.
There were two coffees and two chocolates.
One for me.
One for the person who had come to see me.
The chocolate had already started melting in the heat. Such an ordinary little detail, something anyone else might have forgotten. But I never did. Because it wasn’t really about the coffee or the chocolate. It was about the fact that someone had thought of me before arriving. That somewhere along the way, I had been part of someone else’s thoughts.
We sat on that bench for a while, with the sea in front of us and the sounds of people all around. We didn’t need a plan. We didn’t need anywhere extraordinary to go. For me, simply being there together was already enough.
After a while, we went for a walk.
The city was hot. The streets still held the warmth of the day, cars hurried past, and I was paying attention to everything and nothing at once. The shop windows. The sounds. The footsteps beside mine. That tiny distance between two people who had no idea what they were becoming to each other. We went into a shop and bought some gummy candies. Nothing special.
Just a few sweets chosen on an ordinary afternoon. Then we found ourselves in a park, sitting on another bench. We ate the gummies there. I don’t remember us having any extraordinary conversation. Maybe we laughed, maybe we got tangled up in words again, maybe we let our phones translate what we couldn’t manage to say. But I remember how good I felt. How simple everything seemed. And how desperately I wanted time to slow down.
At some point, I heard a suggestion.
“I want to take you somewhere beautiful.”
I didn’t know where we were going. And honestly, it didn’t matter. I got up from the bench, and we started walking again. When we reached a road we needed to cross, something happened that I would carry with me for a very long time.
A hand reached for mine.
I hadn’t made the first move. I hadn’t searched for an excuse. Our fingers simply intertwined, so naturally that, for a moment, I forgot everything happening around us. I felt butterflies.
And peace.
Until then, I had believed those two feelings couldn’t exist together. That someone could either make your heart race or make you feel safe.
But in that moment, I felt both. I didn’t say anything. We crossed the street holding hands. A gesture that probably meant nothing to the rest of the world. But to me, it meant more than I could have explained in any language. Then we took a bus. I still didn’t know exactly where we were going. I watched the streets of a city that wasn’t mine pass by outside the window, never imagining that one day I would long so desperately to return there. Eventually, we got off. And started walking towards the sea. It wasn’t an ordinary beach. It was a rocky stretch of coastline, where the ground was uneven and some of the stones were slippery. Beyond them, the sea stretched all the way to the horizon. The sun was beginning to set, painting the water in warm shades of gold and orange.
That was when I understood what “somewhere beautiful” had meant. It was a little corner of the world where the sunset looked different. We began making our way down between the rocks. I was trying to watch my step when, once again, a hand reached out towards me. I took it. And we made our way down together. There was no music playing in the background. It wasn’t a scene from a movie. There were only the rocks, the sea, the sunset, and two people trying to reach the same place.
But I wanted to stop time.
Because sometimes the most beautiful moments aren’t the ones when someone promises you the world. They’re the ones when someone reaches out a hand to keep you from falling.
We watched the sunset.
I don’t know whether I understood then how much that afternoon would eventually mean to me. Probably not. I was too busy being happy.
On the bus ride back, exhaustion was beginning to catch up with us. Words had become unnecessary. I rested my head on that familiar shoulder. And I stayed there. There was no attempt to pull away. No need for explanations. Outside the window, lights, people, and streets passed by streets I would probably never recognise again. All I could feel was the warmth of that shoulder. And a kind of peace I hadn’t known in a very long time. I wondered whether that person had any idea what was happening inside me. Whether those small gestures were leaving traces somewhere deep within me, in a place I would one day struggle to reach. Maybe there was no need to know. Maybe, for a little while, simply being there was enough. I remember the glances, too. Those glances that lasted a little longer than they should have. The ones that made me smile and lower my eyes. And when I looked up again, sometimes I would meet that same gaze. I wish I could translate exactly what was happening between us.
I couldn’t then.
I still can’t.
There are people who tell you they love you in long, beautiful sentences. But that day, no one needed long sentences. Someone had come to see me on a day off. Someone had brought me coffee and chocolate that had melted along the way. We had eaten gummy candies together on a park bench. That person had held my hand while we crossed the street. Offered support as we made our way down the rocks. And given me a shoulder to rest my head on during the journey back. And I was beginning to believe that any road, no matter how difficult, could be travelled that way.
With that hand in mine.
To be continued…

We grew closer through messages and glances, with the help of a translation app that sometimes got the most important things completely wrong. I would write, wait, and read every reply twice. Our words travelled between different languages, sometimes through improvised English, sometimes through translations that made us laugh. Between us were amusing mistakes and words neither of us could pronounce quite right.
At first, the language barrier felt like a game. We stumbled over words, laughed, showed each other phrases on our phones, and tried to repeat them. I discovered that a glance could finish a sentence that a translation had ruined. Whenever I didn’t understand something, I would hold out my phone. That familiar presence would move a little closer, read the screen, raise an eyebrow, and try again.
I don’t know exactly when I began looking for excuses to be near that person. Maybe it happened while I watched those familiar footsteps moving between the tables. Maybe when I noticed the hands I had started recognising. Or perhaps when I caught that same attentive gaze resting on me again, making me forget that we were surrounded by people. I didn’t need to invent a story about destiny. What was happening was already enough.
Someone working at the hotel had asked for my Instagram, and I found myself smiling every time a familiar name appeared on my phone.
I loved that nothing had been planned. That everything was unfolding naturally, during a holiday I would have to leave far too soon.
One afternoon, I realised I was no longer waiting only for the next message. I was waiting to see that person. To hear words I couldn’t fully understand. To figure out from a facial expression whether something was meant as a joke. And, more than anything, to stay just a little longer.
It’s strange how missing someone can begin before you’ve even said goodbye. We were still in the same place, and already I was afraid of the distance.
That question — “When are you leaving?” — had changed something. The date that once seemed like the natural end of a holiday was beginning to feel like a threat. I kept telling myself not to exaggerate. We had only just met. We came from different places, lived different lives, and had an ocean of practical problems between us. My mind kept doing the calculations. My heart refused to listen.
Sometimes, we would simply look at each other without saying a word.
It wasn’t the uncomfortable silence of two strangers. It was the kind of silence in which something was happening. I tried to read that familiar face, and I had the feeling that the same was happening in return. As though we were both searching for words that didn’t exist in either language.
Later, I would wonder whether those glances had held a promise. I know now that I cannot answer that question for someone else. I cannot say what those moments meant on the other side. But I know exactly what they meant to me.
I felt seen.
Curious.
Alive.
And for a few brief days, unbelievably happy.
To be continued…