Love Letter

It started with a mistake in planning, human error, twist of fate. It was my first time in this new country, and the pick-up taxi never came.
I contacted work, letting them know no one showed up, but it was ok. I can take a taxi by myself.
“No, it’s 2 a.m. someone from the company will pick you up shortly, don’t worry”.
I took my luggage and sat down in the only available coffee shop, fighting sleep. I got a phone call, and then I heard your voice. Something about it made me instantaneously relax. Perhaps I heard home in your accent, or maybe it was the raspy sound of your sleepy voice.
“I’m sorry I woke you up didn’t I?” I asked, and you laughed.
“I’m coming, I’ll be there in five.”

And then I saw you. I looked up at you as you stood there, your big brown eyes smiling from behind your glasses, the ones I love (not the frame-less ones – please never wear them again).
You smiled, and I dismissed the bubbly feelings in my stomach, blaming it on hunger.
We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and you took my luggage – ever the gentleman – while asking me about my flight. You were chatty, wondering about my interest in this company, my college degree, my story.
“I’m asking way too much yea? Sorry”.
I smiled and said “ask again tomorrow, no worries”.
I looked back into the trunk of your car, and I saw tents, camping equipment, things I adore. And just as we started talking about our love for nature, our thirst to explore, I saw it. The ring on your right hand, and I swallowed.
The question died in my throat; it was ok, I can ask you tomorrow. You safely dropped me at the hotel, wishing me a goodnight, saying you would see me the next day.

Ten days.
Ten days of music, conversation, shared looks and contemplations. It was all harmless right?
You told me about your past, how some girl had broken your heart, how you decided to think rather than feel, how you met your fiancé, and what has brought you here.
You asked about mine, and as I talked you looked deep into my eyes, and I knew you understood. But you were engaged, and I wasn’t that person; you weren’t either.
Then there were slips. Too much alcohol; you held my hand.
Too much time spent together words were said.
“I wish I had met you at a different time” you whispered. I had never wanted anything more.

Six months later, six months of little conversation and bitterness and distance, you got married. I saw your pictures on social media, and I choked. You looked happy. I wanted to believe you were. I loved you, more than I had ever loved anyone.
Fate played its cards again; we met in that same country, your now wife still back home.
This didn’t stop being a love letter when you got married. This stopped being a love letter when you changed. And not in the normal, “I got married” way. I understand you are confused, I understand that “I was the first one who made you feel again”, but I don’t understand how you take me for granted. How you assume I have put my life on hold for something that will never happen.
You will never leave her – it wouldn’t be a rational decision, and you, you rational man (who has shown day in day out you were anything but), would never do that.

Twenty one days. Twenty one days of anger, bitterness, fights and sorrow. We kissed. We cried. We cuddled. We made mistakes. But then you look at me with your chocolate eyes and that smile you save for me, and I almost forget; that you never were mine and never will be. These twenty one days were enough to scar me; enough to help me start getting over you.
We used to be different, we used to be perfect. But this is not another time, and I’m done wasting mine.

This is not a love letter. This is a letter about the love I felt for you, the one I still feel.

Until we meet again,

-G

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