I still think about that night every once in a while, usually when I can’t sleep. It was one of those random summer parties that you don’t even really want to go to, but your friend drags you out of the house. I remember standing on the back porch, drink in hand, watching a bunch of strangers laugh like they’d known each other forever. And then you showed up.
You weren’t dramatic about it. No cinematic entrance. You just slipped through the sliding glass door, looked around like you weren’t sure if you belonged there, and then smiled when you saw someone you knew. I don’t know why, but that moment is burned into my brain.
I never planned on talking to you, honestly. I figured you were just another face in the crowd. But we somehow ended up sitting on the same old patio couch, talking about everything from college roommates to how weird it is that adults never really feel like adults. We didn’t flirt in the obvious way. It wasn’t about that. It was just… easy.
The music was too loud, and people kept cutting in and out of our conversation, but we just kept coming back to each other. You had that kind of calm energy that makes you forget there’s noise around you. For two hours, it felt like the rest of the party blurred out.
And then, just like that, you had to leave. Some friend was ready to go, and you stood up, said it was nice talking, and disappeared into the night. No numbers exchanged, no social media follow, no “let’s hang out sometime.” Just gone.
The next day I actually checked with the host to see if they knew you. They didn’t even remember you being there. I tried asking around, but no one seemed to know who you were. It was like you’d just… passed through.
Weeks went by and I kept thinking I’d see you again. That’s how these things work, right? The universe lines things up, you bump into each other at Target, or at least you find each other online. But it never happened. You stayed a stranger with a face I couldn’t get out of my head.
Sometimes I wonder what could’ve happened if I’d just asked for your number. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe you’d have been the person I’d text when something funny happened. Maybe we’d have gone on one awkward date and realized we had zero chemistry outside of that party. Or maybe we’d have figured it out.
It’s been almost a year now, and I still think about you when I’m sitting on my balcony late at night, hearing music drift up from the street. It’s not that I’m hung up on you as a person — I didn’t even know you that well. I think I’m just hung up on the idea of you. The idea that there’s someone out there who made me feel that seen, that quickly.
My friends laugh when I bring it up. “You just want a rom-com moment,” they say. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this whole thing is just some weird nostalgia trip for a night that wasn’t even that special. But deep down, I think we all have that one “what if” that keeps us awake sometimes.
You’re mine.
So if by some miracle you ever read this, and you remember sitting on that old patio couch talking about life with a stranger on a summer night — yeah, it was me. And I still wonder about what could have been love.
