I met Kahlil…
Kahlil wasn't a storm. He was more like a mirage.
I met him at a networking mixer I almost didn't attend, something casual hosted at a co-working space. The kind of event where people wore ambition like perfume. He was standing near the drinks table, talking about product launches like he'd invented the word momentum. I wasn't looking for anything. I was just there to exist in a room that didn't echo his name.
But Kahlil had this way of making space feel smaller. His confidence wasn't loud, it just didn't ask permission.
We started talking about design, about creative control, about how frustrating it was to have vision and no budget. And then it spiraled. He said he liked my insight. Said I had "that kind of brain." I laughed. It had been a while since someone admired my mind before my body.
One conversation turned into shared files. Shared files turned into brainstorming sessions. And somehow, I blinked and we were walking down streets at dusk, side by side, like we were syncing up without meaning to.
Kahlil didn't ask about my past. He didn't need to. He just existed in the present, in a way that felt... distracting.
And I liked distractions.
He would text at odd hours, 1:14 a.m., with things like: "What would a skincare app for visually impaired users look like?" or "You still up? Let's break something beautiful and rebuild it." I would reply. Every time.
I told myself this was different. That it was just creativity. That I was safe because I wasn't feeling anything.
But sometimes, he'd touch my wrist while laughing. Or lean too close when showing me something on his phone. And the air would shift.
It wasn't love. Not even close.
But it was something.
Something enough to blur lines. To make me wonder if moving on meant moving into something else too quickly.
Still, I didn't pull away. I didn't ask too many questions. I just let it happen.
Because after the hollow ache of missing someone who never fully chose me... being chosen, even loosely, felt like a balm.
Kahlil wasn't a cure. He wasn't the kind of man who healed you.
But he was a moment. And sometimes, after loss, you cling to moments like lifelines.
Even the ones that come with sharp edges.