I met him while running through the narrow streets of Pienza while I desperately tried to find a place where to hide from the rain. It was the beginning of June. Nobody was expecting rain, but suddenly the sky got darker, and the summer storm began. He ran away from the rain just like me, and we hid in the same doorframe – two soaking bodies a little bit too close to each other.
He stood there, his dark hair plastered against his forehead, and raindrops trickling down his face. Even at that moment, he exuded an aura of confidence and determination, a reflection of his courage on the racetrack. Our chance encounter brought together two individuals from completely different worlds, linked by the commonality of seeking refuge from the storm.
Oh, our first date? Pure chaos, just like we are. Too messy, chaotic. Not a great fit – according to others. Late night talking with a bottle of alcohol, passing touches. Both a bit tipsy and he hugged me from behind. He held me like that for a few minutes before trying to kiss me. I didn't kiss him back. I said: "I don't want to be just another name on the list." I let the talks about him get into my brain. He was quiet, offended – rightfully so. I remember stuttering something because I realised how offensive and rude that was. I was trying to repair the mess I made.
A couple more dates followed. It was great. We were having fun. We were still chaotic, and nothing really made sense. We talked about stupid things. I brought up all the women he was with before me. That one crazy story my friends told me about him. I was so ready to end things on that fifth date, but I couldn't. I wanted to end things, yet I left that date with a smile on my lips and with his cologne all over me.
That was also the evening when he told me not to fall in love with him. He told me he couldn't give me what I deserved, even if he wanted to. "I can't give you more than a summer romance. I'll be gone by the end of September."
But then we celebrated my birthday together. Well, two weeks later because he was away. A bottle of champagne and two glasses. Tipsy lovers. He held me so close to him. I believe he loved me at that moment. For a brief second, I closed my eyes and I felt loved. I should've backed out the moment I felt this. I knew it was wrong. I knew I was just hurting myself.
As summer unfolded, we revelled in each other's company, savouring every stolen kiss, every shared laugh. We immersed ourselves in a world where time stood still, cherishing the fleeting love that bloomed among the chaos. However, the impending departure date remained an ever-present reminder, whispering promises of heartbreak and separation.
As the end of September approached, I faced the inevitable truth. I had to bite myself into the cheek every time I saw him. I wanted to tell him how much I wanted him to stay, how much I wished things could be different.
The airport in Rome became the backdrop of our bittersweet farewell, where Charles and I stood, prepared to part ways and return to our separate lives. It was the end of September, the expiration date of our turbulent summer romance.
As we stood there, I fought the urge to beg him to make it work somehow. My heart ached with the knowledge that our time together had an end and that the memories we had created would be all we had left.
Charles, ever the embodiment of composure, wore a stoic expression on his face. As if it didn't hit him at all.
"I should go," he said so calmly when the number of his gate appeared on the big screen with departing flights. I stared at the board.
12:00 SINGAPORE E13
And a few lines below that my flight.
12:50 NEW YORK JFK E11
I nodded, unable to find the right words to express the mess of emotions running through me. It felt as though a dam had burst inside, flooding my heart with longing, regret, and unspoken words.
