It was autumn. The flowers bloomed while the wind carried the crisp scent of the season, brushing against my face with its refreshing breath. She walked elegantly as she crossed the bridge, the evening sunlight glinting off her hair.
I was exhausted from a long day of studying, making my way back from the university library, when a scatter of papers landed at my feet. They weren't mine—they were hers.
She had always dreamed of becoming a writer, and even at that moment, the pages in my hands seemed to suit her soul perfectly. I bent slowly to pick them up, my fingers brushing against the cool surface of the bridge's wooden planks, when I heard a voice—her voice—call out to me.
"Excuse me!" she said, leaning slightly over the railing of the bridge to look down at me.
We barely knew each other, even though we studied at the same university. Yet in that instant, it felt as though the world had drawn a thread between us.
I looked up, caught entirely off guard. For a moment, I was frozen—not because I didn't know what to do, but because I was swept away by her beauty. I had never seen anyone like her before.
She was on top of the overpass, and I was standing below. We simply looked at each other, our eyes holding a strange, unspoken connection.
"I'll come and get them, please," she said, smiling softly as she began to make her way down to meet me.
Her smile… it was something out of this world. Nothing in my life had ever compared to it. That moment—her smile, the papers, the bridge—was the first time I ever met Rihanat.
Those memories flash in my mind even now, vivid as if they happened yesterday. They came rushing back to me the moment she walked diligently into the café.
Even though I am living now as a new being, in a different body altogether, I still wish I could run to her—hold her in my arms and give her all the hugs she'd missed after my death.
She walked past me toward the counter, where Hakeem's brother was ready to take her order.
"What can I get you?" my brother asked.
"One hot citron tea, please," she replied, her voice carrying the same warmth I remembered.
My body trembled as she walked toward a table near the window. She pulled out her laptop and began typing, her posture calm but focused. She hadn't given up on her dream. She was still writing.
Whenever I tried to steal a glance at her, she seemed to sense it. Her head would turn, and our eyes would lock for a brief second before I quickly looked away, pretending to be busy with something else. This happened several times, a silent dance neither of us acknowledged out loud.
Eventually, I was the one to bring her tea to the table. When I placed the cup down, our hands touched. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through me. I tried to act normal, but my trembling hands betrayed me. I forced an awkward smile and walked away.
My brother had been watching me ever since she entered the café.
"Hey," he said, smirking slightly, "do you have a thing for her?"
In my heart, of course, I did. But how could I explain to him that I had known her long before now? That she had once been my fiancée? That the man he calls his brother is no longer the same soul?
I simply said, "No."
Still, curiosity got the better of me.
"Does she come here often?" I asked.
"Almost every day," my brother replied. "Around this time. She stays until closing."
If she came here daily, what about her work? The question nagged at me until I finally pulled out my phone to look her up online.
My heart tightened as the truth unfolded before me. She had become a novelist—an award-winning one, with multiple accolades to her name. She had published the book we once talked about writing together, My First Love, and it had topped best-seller lists across countless platforms.
In one interview, the host asked her who the first person was that came to mind after she won the contest. She answered without hesitation: "The person who rooted for me and my dream."
That person… was me.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't believe the pain I had caused her through my selfishness. She had published that book before I took my own life.
And the day I broke up with her—the day I shattered us—was the very day she had come to bring me the prize money from winning the contest. Out of my ignorance and jealousy, I had destroyed everything. I'd seen her being dropped off by another man and convinced myself she was cheating. Without giving her a chance to explain, I ended things right there. Hours later, in a moment of darkness, I ended my life.
How foolish I had been. If only time could turn back, I would put everything right.
I remembered asking her once, back when we were still together, "What's it like to write a novel?"
Her answer was unlike anything I'd ever heard.
"It feels," she said, "as if I'm standing completely naked in front of the people reading my book. Even if it's fiction, I can't help but weave my own thoughts and experiences into it."
Only now, reading her novel, did I truly understand what she meant. Some of the scenes were drawn directly from moments we had shared—days, words, emotions that belonged only to us.
Back then, she was admired by many men at her workplace, but she had never entertained any of them. Still, I let my jealousy dictate my actions. I even used to joke, telling her, "If you ever leave me, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. I'll be more successful than anyone else hitting on you, and no one will love you more than I do."
I thought I had ended things because of the old saying: When you love someone, you let them go. But I was wrong.
When a man says that, he's lying.
A man might give up his life for the woman he loves, but he will never willingly give her up. I had given up my life for her, but I could never stop loving her.
That night, I stayed at my brother's café until midnight. She was still there, typing away. Then, a teenage girl suddenly walked in and called out, "Rihanat!" Her tone was cheerful, familiar.
Behind her came two adults—a man and a woman. I guessed they were her parents.
"Auntie," the girl said, rushing over.
Rihanat looked surprised. "What are you doing out this late?"
The older woman smiled and explained, "The two of them were craving bread at this hour, so we came out."
In that moment, I remembered—Rihanat had an older sister who had a daughter around that age. They had all once been acquainted with me. And I had betrayed their trust as much as I had betrayed hers.
But now… now was my chance to make things right.