Letter Eight: Not a Goodbye—Once in that Summer Night

Letter Eight – Not a Goodbye

A lot happened during that time. I changed jobs, moved houses, met new people, made new friends. Life kept moving forward. Sometimes, I'd even wonder if you were real—if you ever truly existed.

During those long years when you didn't visit this country, we spoke only three times. Each time, it was you who reached out. But when I did, there was no guarantee of a reply.

I accepted that—grudgingly at first, but eventually, I learned from experience.

One night, out of nowhere, you called. We stayed on video all night. I slept and woke, and you were still there, on the other side of the screen.

I looked at your face and called your name. You stirred a little, looking tired.

“I need to leave for work,” I said. We said goodbye, and I ended the call.

If this had been years ago, I would've looked forward to hearing from you again. But this time, I didn't expect anything. I knew there would only be silence.

Do you like me? Do you love me? It doesn't matter anymore.

You're not in my life.

I had an accident once. I was terribly sick once. I watched a new movie I loved.

You didn't know. And even if you had known, what could you have done?

You said it from the start—we'd never be in a relationship, because I wouldn't like it.

I guess you were right all along. You were older, you'd seen more of the world, you understood things I couldn't yet grasp.

And then, many months later, I had a dream. In it, I received your email: you were coming to my country again. But this time, my first instinct was to run away.

I woke up the next morning, checked my phone—and there it was. Your email. You were coming.

Was this some kind of cruel joke?

I asked the universe: Why are you doing this to me?

This time, I told you we should just have a meal. Nothing more. You agreed.
I wondered why you didn't protest.

At the restaurant, I saw you. You looked the same. Maybe you wore a white shirt and jeans, I cannot remember clearly now.

We ate, we talked. But I don't remember what we talked about.

After dinner, I walked you to the station. At the ticket gate, we stood facing each other. You were so much taller than me. I looked up; you looked down.

“Goodbye,”you said. You leaned forward and gave me a light kiss on the cheek.

“Goodbye,”I replied. I looked into your eyes once more. You smiled faintly.

I remembered that summer day at the zoo—how alive we were, how close.

But now, we were older. Tired. Polite.

You walked into the station without looking back. I turned and walked away, also without looking back.

Was it the next day? Or a few days later? You called me.

You said you wanted to meet again.
I said, sure—let's meet at a restaurant...
But you cut me off, a bit of frustration in your voice. That wasn't what you wanted.

You don't know how hard it was for me to say no to you that day.

Every part of me screamed to go. To feel you again. To be in your arms again.

But I said no. Because what I wanted, and what you could offer, were never the same.

I asked, one last time:
What if I just want to be with you, without caring about anything else?

But I already knew the answer—and my own answer would have been no, too.
It would have been a mistake. I'd end up heartbroken, unable to speak to you again, out of hatred.

I think you cared for me, in your way.

Because if you wanted to, you could've said anything I needed to hear—and I would've run to you. But you didn't. You gave me the truth. As you always did.

You said my answer was better.

And then we hung up.

I cried, more than I thought I would, for a relationship that never even began.

If the universe had given us more time together, maybe I'd have more memories of you. But then... it would've hurt so much more. Maybe this was the best scenario we could've had.

I never said I liked you. I never said I loved you.

I never said, please don't go. Please...stay. Be with me.

Because love, in this form, would never be enough to me.

Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.