It’s 3:31 a.m., the 1st of March. Quiet. The world sleeps, but I’m awake, tracing memories that still feel sharp, soft, and warm all at once.
We loved.
Not in the steady, claimable way. Not in the kind of love that fits neatly into a life or a calendar. But in moments, in gestures, in textures that linger.
He loved music, rap in particular. Cars were his passion, his trade, his world. And then there was the softness of him, the neatness in his appearance, the care in every word, every glance. He smoked cigarettes – the strong kind yet even after a puff, when I kissed him, he tasted like mint and coffee, and that taste has never left me.
Our first date was on a rooftop in Gwarimpa. The city lights wrapped around us like quiet applause. As I kissed him goodbye, I caught a toothpick on his lip. Blood. I apologized profusely, flustered. He just smiled and made sure I felt no guilt, smoothing over the moment with the ease of someone who understood tenderness without needing perfection.
We had so many dates; quiet, private, laughter-filled dinners, the kind that make time feel suspended. Sometimes, after work, we would sit in his car, he ordering Bolt ride for me, while we sang along to music, loud enough that the city faded. He would track my Bolt until I got home, then drive away, leaving me safe and warm with a memory.
And I loved all of that. Every single, small, human detail.
But… it wasn’t ours.
Not fully. Not in the way that allows a heart to rest without wondering, without compromise. He had a world that wasn’t mine to step into completely. And even as love thrived in the gestures, the kisses, the laughter, the care – it existed on borrowed time, in a space we could only inhabit briefly.
There is a strange kind of grace in that: to have been seen, to have been cherished, and to accept that some love, no matter how real, cannot be claimed. That even the tenderness that seems infinite must bow to circumstance.
We loved, and yet… it was enough to teach me. To teach me the sweetness of small acts, the weight of care, the subtle ways love can move through life without holding. The mint-and-coffee taste of his kiss, the rooftop skyline, the laughter in the car; these are my treasures.
We loved, but it wasn’t ours. And perhaps that is the deepest kind of learning: to know love, to savor it, and to release it with gratitude.
