Letter One – The Meeting
It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Instead, I sat alone in the hotel lobby, heartbroken. I was drenched in sadness, replaying the unpleasant moments with my family in my mind.I didn't want to go back to my one-room rental just yet. I didn't want to sit in this feeling all by myself.
And then—you showed up.
I was irritated by the fact that you sat right across from me, of all places, with so many other comfortable couches in this spacious hotel lobby. You were waiting for your friends—I saw another man approach, greet you, and sit down beside you. That confirmed it.
I looked away, to my left, fixating on the floor. I didn't feel like making eye contact—definitely not the kind that might lead to small talk with a stranger.
And then, out of the blue, you spoke to me.
“Why are you so sad?” you asked.
“Some family issues. I had a fight with them,” I answered, reluctantly.
I didn't look at your face right away, but I could sense a broad smile spreading across it.
“Wow, you speak very good English!” you said, like you were praising a schoolgirl. I could tell you were delighted—maybe you hadn't expected a girl like me to manage this language.
After a few casual back-and-forth questions, I shared that I was supposed to stay with my family in the hotel, but now I couldn't—because of the fight. You noticed I was still avoiding your gaze. Then you stood up, walked across the space, and sat at the table between us. Suddenly, you were right in front of me.
I remember thinking, Oh dear God, what's with this man?
And then you did something totally unexpected—you reached out and held my hand. That's when I looked at your face.
“If you have no place to stay, you can stay in my room tonight. I'll stay in another room,” you said.
You must have been a very confident, worldly man to do such a thing—holding a stranger's hand the first time you meet, acting so calm and yet persuasive.
Why don't I pull my hand away? I asked myself. But strangely, this intimate physical contact didn't make me uneasy. It was—surprisingly—comforting.
It felt like a human gesture of kindness. And I needed some kindness in that moment, even if it was questionable. Especially because it came from a complete stranger. A man. A foreigner.
I decided to stay still and see how this would unfold. I was curious.
I thought you had a good-looking face, but it didn't dazzle me or make me shy. It was just a good-looking face. At the time, I didn't realize how handsome you really were—to other people.
You asked my name. You wanted my phone number.
“Will I see you again?” you asked.
I decided to give you a sarcastic answer, just to push back a little—to this man who had just held a stranger's hand without hesitation.
“I'll see you in a dream,” I said. And I think it caught you off guard.
You laughed, touched your forehead with your hand, as if you'd just heard something hilarious.
You turned to your friends, who were all seated next to us, watching this unfold. “This is the first time—the first time I ask a girl, and she answered like that…” you said.
Years later, when I relive this moment, I realize something:
That answer might have been very rare for you to hear. Because you are a very handsome, very charismatic man.
Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
