Where Things Almost Began II — I Didn’t Stay, and Neither Did He

"...A part of me hoped he’d stay once it cooled down. He didn’t..."

I have more to tell you.

And once again, the subject is love. Or maybe the space where love almost happend.

Do you remember my last letter? The one where I told you about my struggle, about dates, about that first one with him. How hopeful it felt. How romantic. How alive.

It didn’t end there.

Life intervened, as it always does.
My sister is pregnant, and I was meant to travel back to the country where she lives, to be there for the birth. I already had the tickets. But plans shifted, and what remained was a single ticket, to the capital, right in the middle of New Year’s.

Seven days.

And of course, my first thought was him.
H.

I had been overthinking it for weeks, knowing I would be alone in his city. I tried to stay grounded, tried not to spiral. But beneath the surface, anxiety was already waiting for me. The kind I’ve been fighting for almost a year now. Freezing. Panic attacks. Losing control of my own body. This matters. You’ll see why.

The day I traveled, I texted him from the airport. Told him I’d be around for New Year’s, asked if anything was happening. He said there would be concerts downtown, but he wouldn’t be there that night. Maybe we could meet after.

So we did.

After New Year’s.
At the statue.
8:00 pm.
Just like last time.

I was waiting for him near the statue, standing beneath a gigantic Christmas tree, glowing with lights and decorations. I turned around, and there he was, walking toward me.

My heart raced.
My thoughts froze and scattered at the same time.

God, he was even better looking than I remembered.

We walked to the museum, slipped easily back into each other. That strange feeling of continuity, as if nothing had been interrupted. A museum of illusions. We played, took pictures, and kissed. It didn’t feel like a restart. It felt like picking up a sentence mid-line.

I noticed he kept checking his watch. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or the fact that the museum was closing.

When we left, we walked for a while. He suggested we go somewhere warm, his place or mine. I chose mine. It was less than five minutes away.

I was staying in a beautiful apartment, with a breathtaking view of the city. Antique, romantic, full of quiet charm. It was warm, too warm, really. I couldn’t lower the heating and had grown used to it, but he seemed uncomfortable. We opened a window and stayed in the living room, admiring the lights outside.

That’s when things shifted.

We started kissing. Somehow my black dress was already on the floor. My overthinking, shy side kicked in, I stopped to turn off the lights. He thought I wanted to go to the bedroom and led me there.

Suddenly, I was completely naked.
And everything intensified.

It was amazing. Overwhelming. Too much, too fast. I asked him to stop for a moment. I needed to breathe, maybe from the intensity, maybe from the heat. We lay there talking, laughing, trying to slow time down.

Then I noticed something was off.

He said the heat made him sleepy, that he had a headache. I suggested opening more windows, and for him to undress as well, but for some reason he didn’t want to. I joked about it.

And that’s when I disappeared into my head.

My heart started pounding so hard I felt it in my stomach. And so did he, I told him it happens sometimes. (When I am panicking. And I was).

I started acting strangely, because there was a moment where we just looked at each other, and suddenly I jumped up, moved away.

I felt exposed. Overwhelmed.

Too naked. Literally. Emotionally. With someone I barely knew.

We had rushed the first time because we thought it was our only chance. And now… what were we doing?

I wanted intimacy. But not like this. Not now.

I wished we had stayed in the living room. Talked more. Kissed more. Let it linger.

After my reaction, he tried to be kind, making jokes, trying to lighten the mood. But I was already gone. Anxiety had taken over.

Eventually, he said he might leave.

That’s when I started sinking.

My stomach dropped. My throat closed. He asked if it was okay for him to leave. I said yes, calmly. He kissed my shoulder, felt my scent  as if trying to hold onto something, and somehow that made everything worse.

I snapped. Asked why he was doing that. Got up. Opened more windows.

A part of me hoped he’d stay once it cooled down.

He didn’t.

He went to the bathroom. I rushed to put on my pajamas and sat in the living room, staring at the city lights, criticizing myself, replaying everything, trying to look composed before he came back.

I asked if I’d said something wrong.
He said no. Definitely not.
He kissed me goodbye.

As he turned to leave, I said, “Wait.”

He turned around.

And I couldn’t speak.

Don’t go!
Go!
What happened?
Was it me? Was it us?

Instead, I said I was just looking for the keys.

And then he left.

When the door closed, I collapsed.

I cried. I cursed myself. For being insecure. For being vulnerable. For being too much or not enough. For not knowing how to play the game. For not being the effortless, confident woman from the movies.

How can a man get a woman naked and just leave without even going all the way?

Was it him?
No. Definitely not.

It had to be me.

I cried all night.

The next day, snow fell softly outside, one of those cruelly romantic days. I stayed under the blankets, panicking, unable to eat. After hours of talking to my sisters and my best friend, searching for something to hold onto, I finally forced myself out of bed and went ice skating.

Otherwise, I would have stayed trapped in that loop of shame.

I texted him that morning. Thanked him for being kind. Apologized for acting off. Told him I might not be ready to date again.

He replied the next day. Gentle. Understanding. Said I didn’t need to apologize.

Then he sent the pictures from our date.

I haven’t replied.

Today I’m going back. I’m at the airport again, writing this, wondering whether to answer, or let it rest. No text. No reply. Just moments, sealed in time.

But

Maybe this story isn’t about him at all.

Maybe it’s about how easily I still search for myself in other people.

How quickly silence becomes a mirror. How fast I blame myself when things don’t go perfectly.

Mybe I shouldn’t regret the dates.

Afterall, they gave me warmth. Connection. Proof that I can still feel deeply.

Maybe I’m supposed to be learning that almost can be beautiful without becoming more.

That not every connection is meant to stay. Some are just meant to pass through and leave a mark.

Maybe some stories don’t end. They simply rest.

And maybe that’s enough, for now.

Maybe I need to be as gentle with myself.
As I was trying to be with all of them.

Maybe it’s time to unlearn the idea
That someone else’s desire is a verdict on my worth.

xoxo
Mia