Waking up to a scent that wasn't yours and feeling unfamiliar tiredness was an indescribable feeling.
This was my first serious relationship, and it felt more real than I could have imagined. There was nothing I could do but enjoy it.
I woke up to my alarm, which told me it was time to return to reality and leave this warm embrace to go to work.
It was the most beautiful good morning I'd heard in a long time, and I apologized for leaving to go to work. I asked him what his plans were for dinner and other things.
He smiled and said, "Busy, sorry."
I said, "Okay, call me when you're free, and remember I'm busy too, so if I don't answer, wait for my reply."
"Okay, ma'am."
"Okay, I'll go."
"Can we do a nice ritual between us?"
"What is it?" I asked curiously.
"A kiss when we part. What do you think?"
"I like that."
Yes, our lives have become much simpler than I imagined, as if all those complications I feared were nothing but illusions created by my old loneliness.
Our meetings weren't dazzling or extraordinary, but they were enough to fill an inner void I hadn't known existed. Sometimes we met for a few hours, just a quick coffee and a few words, and sometimes the meetings stretched on until time melted away between us without us even noticing, as if the world stopped at the mere sight of us together.
My house became his without any formality, and his keys were no longer unfamiliar to him, and he, too, became an integral part of my daily life without any prior arrangement.
Some days I cook, trying to appear confident as I prepare simple dishes, silently observing his expression to gauge his enjoyment. Other days he takes over, entering the kitchen as if he's known it for years, moving with an ease that both amazes and delights me.
And in between, we sometimes escape to old restaurants, places whose walls hold stories we don't know, but which somehow resemble us: quiet, warm, and unpretentious.
We sit there for hours, talking about trivial things and profound ones, laughing for no apparent reason, or remaining silent without any awkwardness.
Our life wasn't filled with grand surprises; it was built on small, genuine details. A fleeting glance, a hand grasped without a second thought, or even a simple argument ending in a smile.
I used to think love had to be loud to be real, but with him, I discovered that quiet could be far more genuine.
It wasn't about trying to impress anyone anymore, but about being comfortable being yourself, without fear of being misunderstood.
And yet, a subtle feeling was growing inside me, a sense of peace I'd never known before.
I no longer searched for anything bigger or more complicated, because what we had, in its simplicity, was inexplicably enough. Perhaps our life wasn't perfect, but it was real, and that alone was more than I needed.
There were some very strange things I noticed about Michael, but they were only for very short periods, and I didn't think they defined his personality; they were just odd.
One day, a critical case arrived at the emergency room, and Michael was the closest person to her at that moment. Everything was happening at a bewildering pace: the beeping of machines, the doctors' footsteps, the overlapping instructions, as if time itself were racing by and we were trying to keep up.
I stood back, watching, powerless to intervene, content to follow the details of his face, hoping to see something… anything that might indicate the weight of the moment.
But it was all over unjustly quickly. Everything stopped abruptly, as if life had quietly slipped away without a trace. There was no screaming, no drama as I had imagined, just a heavy silence that filled the room. I looked at Michael, waiting to see a break, or even a slight tremor, something to show that he was affected by what had happened.
But he wasn't.
He stood there with an uncanny composure, giving the body a brief, expressionless look. It wasn't cruelty, it wasn't pity, it was… emptiness. Then, with perfect stillness, he took his cross from his pocket, pressed it against his hand as if grasping at something invisible, and said in a steady voice, "Time of death…" as if it were simply a fact being recorded, not the end of a life. I froze. I didn't know if what I'd seen was strength or something far more sinister. I thought such moments would leave a clear mark on faces, etching new lines of sorrow or weariness, but his features remained unchanged, unwavering.
Then he moved as if nothing had happened. He gave a few instructions, then left the room with the same quiet composure with which he'd entered. I followed him with my gaze, feeling something strange creep inside me, a mixture of astonishment and unease. How could someone see death up close, so suddenly, and then leave without taking any of it with them?
That night, the scene remained etched in my mind. It wasn't the patient that preoccupied me, but Michael. I began to wonder if the silence surrounding him was a shield protecting him, or a genuine, unfillable emptiness. Had he grown so accustomed to it that he no longer felt anything? Or did he feel more than he showed, but chose to bury it all behind that still gaze?
And for the first time, I felt uneasy thinking about him. I felt there was a side of him I no longer understood, perhaps... I never knew him at all.
But after work, as he was walking me home, when I asked him about the situation, he told me he'd seen death a lot in his childhood, so he'd grown accustomed to it.
And that I also had old wounds. I didn't try to pressure him to talk; I just said, "If there's anything you want to talk about, I'm here."
He said he wanted me to meet his friend and roommate.
"And finally, you're going to introduce me to the always-busy guy."
"Yes, he's just a busy fool."