You weren’t mine to take. I took you anyway. You didn’t say a thing, not after that initial confession of finding me attractive and being disturbed by it. It didn’t matter, though. Your eyes gave you away. Every word you spoke to me showed clearly what was in your heart. I tried for months to plead oblivion to my friends. “No,” I told them, “we’re not holding hands like lovers. We’re holding hands like children.” We were, then. A hug never led to a kiss. Sleeping in the same bed never led to anything tawdry. Not until much later, anyway.
We were drunk with freedom in the cobbled, old world streets of Europe. Remember? Taking trips imagined only 24 hours previously. Never a proper meal during our adventures — strawberries and the largest bars of dark chocolate from local supermarkets, sandwiches and gelato in the streets. Wandering to get lost, drinking too much, laughing too loud, and dancing in the streets despite not knowing how. That is what I remember about you.
We were perfect together for the months we were us. Quietly, we finally exchanged those three words as we waited at the airport for a plane to take me away from you. But there was no place in the world for us past the little one we created just being with each other far, far from home. In that moment, we had every intention of seeing one another again. It never happened.
Still, when I hear from you once in a long while, I can tell that for you, our dalliance has never died. You still hope. For me, I know that what we had cannot be recreated. But that’s what makes it beautiful, and beautiful forever.
(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)