Meadow and memorial

I was ready to grow old early.

Not in years but in spirit.

Routine felt like mercy. Predictable. Contained.

After everything that had burned through me after being buried under noise, overwhelm, emotional static

quiet started to look like peace.

I told myself give me someone boring give me something steady give me a life that doesn’t ask too much of me

and I will call that happiness.

I meant it.

Then she walked in and something ancient in me refused to stay buried.

Not forced. Not performed.

Remembered.

Like breath returning after being held too long.

I was moving again laughing without measuring it dancing without thinking about who might be watching

everything felt lit from the inside

and she was there snort laughing at jokes that didn’t belong to anyone else in the room.

We never called it dating.

Not really.

A collision. A spark that didn’t ask permission to become fire.

We met in places then left those places together like gravity had already decided something we hadn’t said out loud.

I held back.

Not out of fear but out of respect for something I didn’t want to rush into ruin.

And maybe that was too slow or maybe the world around us was already spinning too fast

because the moment I nearly stepped forward the moment I considered giving it a name

she stepped back.

Said it was moving too quickly.

And I said that was okay because it was

but I still wanted to know where I stood before I walked away from something that felt like this.

There was no clean ending.

Just silence where answers should have been.

Time passed.

I saw her again in fragments in passing once across from me on a date that wasn’t ours

and we talked like nothing had broken like whatever lived between us had simply changed shape.

I asked two other women out that year.

Only two.

Because they felt strong enough to interrupt the echo she left in me.

Both became friendships.

She remained something else.

Not obsession. Not longing in the way people warn you about.

Something brighter. More dangerous than that.

She was the best night of my year that refused to become a memory.

At a memorial of all places

we found each other again.

I have to admit this moment was some damn good writing

From whomever is authoring our stories

I was sure I had moved on.

I told myself this will be simple this will be easy this will be nothing.

Then she hugged me.

And it wasn’t the kind of hug you give someone you’ve filed away.

It lingered. Then returned.

Her eyes stayed longer than they should have.

Her scent her warmth the way conversation slipped back into place like it had been waiting for us

and for a moment

everything opened again.

Then I said goodbye knowing exactly what it was

and what it wasn’t.

I don’t want more from her.

That part is true.

But there is a quiet grief in knowing I haven’t found that same fire again.

I wander now not lost just orbiting

far from where I started

closer to who I actually am

knowing I am over her but not over what happened in me because of her.

Something else sparked recently.

Almost.

But almost has a different temperature.

It fades too clean.

What we had didn’t fade.

It carved.

I still wonder if she ever felt it the same way

or if this is simply her gift the way she moves through the world leaving light in people without staying to see what it becomes.

Maybe I wasn’t the exception.

Maybe I was just one more who drank from something rare and called it destiny.

I don’t hold onto what doesn’t flow.

I won’t.

Even if it once did.

But there is still a trace of it a sting without tears

which is how I know I’m okay.

Mostly.

I made a good friend.

It doesn’t have to be more.

But it did something to me.

It ruined my tolerance for a life that only pretends to be alive.

At a concert recently I felt myself tightening again pulling inward becoming smaller than I am

and I had a thought

that she might be somewhere in that crowd.

That was enough.

My body remembered before my mind could argue.

I moved again. Freely.

Like something unlocked.

And that’s when I understood.

It was never her.

Not really.

She didn’t give me anything.

She revealed it.

But knowing something lives inside you doesn’t mean you don’t want someone to meet you there.

So I wander.

Not empty. Not waiting to be saved.

Just carrying a flame that sometimes burns steady sometimes flickers

but never fully goes out.

Some hauntings are cruel.

This one isn’t.

This one is a promise.

And until I find something that flows without breaking

I will drink from what was without mistaking it for all that will ever be.

Because it happened once.

And that means it can happen again.