That night, after the long drive from the airport, I sat quietly beside him in the car. The city lights of Bali flickered across his face, highlighting the calm in his eyes. He didn't seem rushed. He didn't seem nervous. Meanwhile, my heart was racing like waves crashing against the shore.
I tried to act composed, but inside, I was trembling. Is this really happening? Am I really here, with him?
At the hotel, he handled everything with quiet confidence. Check-in, the room key, the casual "Come on" as he gestured for me to follow him. There was something steady in the way he moved—like he belonged everywhere, like he had carried the world on his shoulders and still knew how to walk gracefully.
And yet, when he turned to me and smiled, I saw a softness. A tenderness. Something only I was meant to see.
We sat by the window, looking out at the sea. He asked about my day, about my children, about my work. His questions weren't intrusive. They felt… safe. He didn't pry, but he listened. Truly listened.
Still, I couldn't silence the whispers in my head.Does he really care? Or is this just temporary?Am I a fleeting escape, or could I be something more?
I searched his body language for clues—the way he leaned slightly closer when I spoke, the way his eyes softened when I laughed, the way he let silence linger without discomfort. Every gesture felt sincere, but doubt crept in like smoke through a half-open door.
Later, when he touched my hand, I noticed the roughness of his palm. His skin was not smooth, not polished, but worked, lived. It reminded me of my own hands, calloused from years of work and life's battles. For a moment, I felt we were the same—two souls shaped by struggle, now reaching for each other.
But just as warmth began to fill my chest, a different thought struck me like a cold wind: If he can hold my hand this easily, has he held others before me just the same way?
I hated myself for thinking it. Yet the thought clung to me, sharp and unrelenting.
He noticed my silence. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.
I forced a smile. "Yes, just… tired."
But the truth was, I wasn't tired. I was terrified. Terrified of wanting him too much. Terrified of losing him before I could even have him.
That night, I lay beside him, listening to his steady breath as he fell asleep. My eyes refused to close. I memorized every detail—the curve of his shoulder, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, the way his lips parted slightly when he dreamed. I wanted to freeze that moment, to keep it safe inside me forever.
And then, just before sleep finally pulled me under, I heard him whisper something. Soft, almost inaudible.
A name.
But it wasn't mine.