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Le véritable amour résiste à toutes les tempêtes.

(True love withstands every storm.)

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Short love story from everyday life.

Coincidence

The meeting was pure coincidence. A twist of fate I had not anticipated. I was walking through the city, and the late afternoon sun felt languid and warm on my skin, a golden glow that bathed the building facades in soft light. Just as I turned the corner, I saw you. You emerged from a side street, your black coat draped over your arm, your hair a little longer than I remembered. But it was that same confident rhythm in your stride that made my heart perform a strange, halting leap. My breath caught in my throat.

You saw me at the exact same moment. There was half a second of disbelief, a flash of recognition, and then a smile broke across your face that melted the years away like snow in the sun. The bustle around us faded.

We embraced awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk. While bicycle bells rang out insistently and the voices of passersby hummed like a distant murmur around us, I held you close. Your body felt exactly the same against mine: soft, warm, and with that familiar pressure of your arms on my back. You smelled like the past, like a hint of vanilla and something spicy, mixed with the light, dusty scent of the city in the heat. It was as if time had stood still and we had never stopped belonging to each other.

“Coffee?” I asked, my voice a little hoarser than I intended. You nodded without a trace of hesitation.

On the terrace we found a table in the corner. The sun slanted across the weathered wooden planks, and the chairs still felt hot from the afternoon sun. Our cappuccinos were set down steaming, crowned with a thick layer of creamy foam that tasted sweet and bitter at once. At first we stuck to safe, surface topics. We talked about work, about the city that had changed beyond recognition, and about the trivial details of our current lives.

But soon the conversation sank deeper, as if we were breaking through a thin layer of ice into the warm current beneath. We laughed about the absurd quarrels from back then, about that one time I took the wrong train and you waited for me for two hours in the pouring rain, refusing to leave. We recalled the dreams we had once spoken aloud: that little house outside the city, the trips we had already taken in our minds but that never became reality. Your laugh was still infectious, low and a bit husky at the edges. It filled the space between us with a warmth I had not found anywhere else in all those years.

“Just imagine how things would have turned out,” you said suddenly, softer. You stirred the remaining foam with your spoon in a hypnotic, circular motion. Your voice was low and almost palpable in the sultry air.

I looked at your mouth, at the small dimples that always appeared in your cheek when you laughed, and felt desire spread through my chest like a slow, warm wave. Your eyes were exactly as I had seen them in a thousand nights: dark, lively, and with those golden specks that lit up in the last afternoon light. It was unbearably familiar. The distance between us, small as it was, felt like a cold draft along my skin, while every fiber in my body pulled toward you.

I wanted to reach my hand across the table, entwine your fingers with mine, and say that I still thought of you every day. That the love was still there, a quiet flame that had never been extinguished despite the distance. But I remained silent. We both knew that some doors were closed for a reason. Yet your shoulder accidentally brushed against mine as you adjusted your coat, a brief, electric touch that sent a jolt through my arm and made the air between us vibrate.

The coffee grew cold, and unnoticed the afternoon became evening. When the sun sank behind the rooftops and the lights above the terrace clicked on softly, we ordered a bottle of red wine. The liquid gleamed deep and dark in our glasses. The scent of ripe fruit and oak mingled with the evening air, heavy and enticing. Each sip left a velvety warmth on my tongue. We continued talking, softer now, about the breakup and the distance that had slowly grown back then until there seemed nothing left to bridge. But between the sentences something else trembled: a longing that had never been cut through, a chord that still echoed.

We both knew it made no sense to keep digging into what had been. The bottle emptied, and the evening air began to smell of wet cobblestones and the first sweet blossoms of the linden trees farther down. My heart pounded in a restless rhythm I could feel all the way up in my throat.

I paid, and we stood up, our legs a little heavy from the wine and the emotions. “Come,” I said, “I’ll walk you home.”

We walked side by side through the now hushed streets. Our footsteps sounded in sync on the cobblestones, a rhythm we had shared for years. Every now and then our arms lightly brushed each other, an accidental contact that each time triggered a wave of melancholy. The cool evening breeze stroked along my neck, but your nearness felt like a protective blanket against the night.

At your door we stopped. The air here was thick with the blossom scent and the light, damp chill creeping up from the entryways. You looked at me, a second longer than necessary for a farewell between friends. In your eyes I saw the same inner conflict that raged within me, a soft glimmer of tears that you bravely held back.

I pulled you to me one last time. I felt the warmth of your body through the fabric of your coat, the familiar contours of your back beneath my hand, and your breath warm against my neck. For a moment there was no time, no past, and no future. Only us, here. Then I slowly released you.

“Good night,” I said, and the word felt heavy in my mouth.

You smiled, a small and fragile gesture. “Good night.”

I turned around and walked away without glancing back once. Behind me I heard the door click gently into the lock. That single, final little click echoed in the empty street and marked the line between what was and what could have been. The longing kept burning, sharp and sweet at once, while the cold night air caressed my face. I put one foot in front of the other and walked into the night, knowing that a part of me would always remain standing there with you in that doorway.

(Translate from Dutch.)

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A short story inspired by an experience of a good friend.

Everything I Saved for Later

I thought there was enough time. Time enough to reach for the warmth of your hand before the couch between us turned into an ice field. Time to tell you you were beautiful, especially on those gray days when you hid behind your exhaustion. Time to really listen to your stories about your colleagues or the flowers that refused to bloom. Those seemingly small words that, I realize only now, formed the very foundation of our life together.

You were always there. You were the oxygen in the room, unnoticed, until the air slowly began to run out.

Only now do I see it: how often you looked at me, begging for a sign of life. A word, a touch, a fraction of recognition that proved I was still there. Something that said: I see you. I did see you. But I chose blindness.

I kept my love locked away like a precious secret, deep inside, while you stood outside in the draft, waiting for the key. I thought that simply knowing the safe existed would be enough for both of us. What a foolish, arrogant mistake.

Love that isn’t spoken dies a slow death in the draft between two people.

I remember your soft sighs. They were words you swallowed because no one was listening on the other side. I heard them. I understood them. But I stayed silent.

Now that silence echoes louder than any scream. You were never out of my thoughts. You were the heartbeat beneath every day, a melody I hummed without honoring where it came from.

That’s the bitter truth: inside, I never let you go. But in the real world, I loosened my fingers from yours, one by one.

If I could turn back time, I would make the small things big. I would say your name more often, just to fill the air with it. I would grab your hand as if it were the only lifeline keeping me above water.

I don’t know if these words can still fill the emptiness. Or if they can mend the holes I let form through my own sluggishness. But if you ever wondered whether I loved you, then this is my answer:

Always.

Only I forgot to give you the warmth of it when you needed it most.