That morning,I was tense, my thoughts scattered, but he noticed it before I even said a word. He held my hand, looked deep into my eyes, and whispered, "I don't know what will happen, but whatever happens, you are not alone."
Those words struck something inside me. A part of me wondered—were they just words, or would he prove them with his actions? Yet, in that moment, the confusion didn't matter. I felt safe, like I had finally made the right choice. If he was with me, I would never be alone again. I wouldn't be just an option anymore. His every action seemed to say, "She is mine."
Finally, after the police finished their search and returned our things, relief washed over us. We stepped out, determined to make new memories. We went to Food Street, tasted everything our eyes caught, laughed over shared bites, and later walked back to the beach. There, I held cotton candy in one hand, and he held me in the other. I sat beside him on the sand, the waves kissing our feet. He slipped his arm around my waist, pulled me closer, and with that silent gesture told me—"You are mine. Don't drift away."
From there, we wandered into the bazaar. He bought me a chain—my very first gift from him. It wasn't just a chain; it was a promise, a memory carved in silver. Tomorrow, he had to leave, and the thought pressed heavily on my heart. It all felt too perfect, too magical to end. We wanted to make the night last longer with a movie, but tiredness won, and we fell asleep instead.
In the middle of the night, I woke up to drink water. That's when I saw him. He wasn't sleeping. He was staring at me, eyes glowing softly in the dim light, filled with something I had never seen before—admiration. For a moment, I was stunned. Then my heart melted. I had found someone who looked at me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.
Morning arrived too soon. It was time for goodbye. I could see it in his eyes—he didn't want to go back. He kept delaying, dragging every minute, while I hurried him along. At the railway station, he went into a shop and returned with a KitKat for me. Then, with a long face, he pleaded for one more day together. My heart ached, but I said no, worrying about the ticket costs and his comfort. He rested his head on my shoulder, held my hand tightly, and together we clicked pictures, silently praying for time to slow down.And maybe God listened. His train was delayed—five whole hours. It felt like a blessing, a gift. We got more time, more smiles, more hand-holding, before distance separated us again.
After he left, I saw him break down. He cried because he missed me so much. Over and over, he said, "We are far again… my hand feels empty, I just want to hold yours." He slept with my hoodie pressed against him, just to feel like I was still there. He cried saying he was forgetting my scent, and in that moment, I saw him not as a grown man but as a child—open, vulnerable, safe enough to show me his truest self.
Days passed, and then came a surprise. A package arrived—inside were a pair of earrings and a teddy bear. It was his monthly anniversary gift for me. What melted me more than the gifts was knowing he hadn't just ordered them online. He had gone to a store, chosen them with his own hands, thought of me, and sent them through courier.
I, too, bought us matching couple chains, but I held back from sending his. He still lived with his parents, and we promised to exchange them when we met again—before I finished my PG.
Now, in every text, every call, I feel the same longing in both our voices. "Can I see you one more time? Can I kiss you, hug you, and feel you again?" That hope is alive in us, carrying us forward, waiting for the next moment when distance will break and we will be in each other's arms again.