Letter 7 – The Moment I Knew
When we first met, you asked if we'd meet again. I replied,
“I'll see you in the dream.”Just a gentle push-back. But maybe I shouldn't have made a joke of it, because now I dream of you, often.
It always begins the same: a text, or an email from you, saying you're in town. I drop everything in my hands, rush to meet you.
We have the best time—laughter, closeness, that ease. But then it changes. you leave, and I try to reach you afterward, and there's no reply. Or I'm the one who has to go, back to my life, and when I turn around, you're already gone—back to yours. A life I have no part in.
I used to check my inbox several times a day, hoping your name would appear. It never did. And the dreams kept returning—until they no longer felt sweet. Until they became something that hurt.
Months passed. I eased back into my life.
Then one night, a text from you: I'm here.
I felt anger. Sadness. And something like relief.
When we met, I asked calmly, but with heat beneath my voice,
“Why didn't you reply to any of my emails?”
“Don't be mad at me,”you said, looking away, avoiding my gaze—a gaze that held both sorrow and anger.“Don't be mad at me.”
That was all. No explanation. And I stopped being mad.
As I'd once told you, I understood you in a way that didn't need words. I knew. I didn't press.
We slipped back into old rhythms. That ease. That ache.
I had missed you terribly—but I didn't say it.
Once, I asked—half testing—why you didn't want to be in a relationship with me.
You said,
“Because I really like you. I want us to stay in touch. If we were together, you'd end up hating me. And you will not want to speak with me again.”
And I understood.
I knew that was probably the best version of us we could ever have.
I asked if you had feelings for me. I didn't even dare say “Do you like me?”
But with you beside me, the sadness quieted. I wanted only to be there, with you, in that moment. You were here.
I remember the night before you were to leave. I fell asleep beside you—not too deeply. I woke up here and there, smiling each time I saw you sleeping beside me. And then, the phone rang. The hotel room's phone.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The fourth. The fifth. Each time, it rang for far too long before it stopped.
At the sixth, I tried to get up to answer—but you reached for me, pulled me back. I lay beside you again, curled next to you. The phone kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing.
Then it finally stopped.
I never asked who it was. You never said. And the next morning, we didn't spoke of it.
But I knew.
I knew.
I knew.
Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
