I have a crush that live mostly in theory — the kind that feels too big, too ideal, almost unreal, the kind you tuck into daydreams because it feels too far away from your actual life. I honestly didn’t expect our paths to ever cross. I even prepared myself not to meet him at all.
But life is always 50:50 — half uncertainty, half chance — and for once, I didn’t want to choose the safer half. So instead of assuming the worst, I did something unfamiliar: I prepared for the best. So I packed a bottle of wine for him — not out of expectation, but intention. Not random wine — wine I chose intentionally, like a tiny offering that said: “I wanted to show up thoughtfully, just in case the universe lets our paths cross.”
When the moment finally came and I handed it to him, he lit up. He really liked it. he said it was special. Then he said it again, and then once more, like he wanted to make sure I knew he meant it.
I didn’t think the encounter would be warm.
I didn’t think it would be close. But it was.
There were hugs — many, many hugs. They were warm and disarming in a way I didn’t expect. There was hugs hello, hugs in-between, hugs goodbye, hugs again because goodbye didn’t land quite right the first time. It was the kind that held a little longer than necessary. There was hand holding too — easy, natural, unforced. It was repeated soft contact that feels like calm, not chaos. The kind you only get when both people feel safe enough to let their guard drop for a moment.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t a confession.
It wasn’t anything wild.
It was just two people sharing a gentle, unexpected closeness — one I wouldn’t have experienced if I hadn’t stepped into the 50% chance. But somewhere in all of this, my narrative shifted. It stopped being about the crush and started being about the version of me who didn’t shrink. The whole interaction shifted and it takes me to a moment of reflection — about the woman I’ve been becoming these past few years. The one who gave the wine. The one who stepped forward instead of doubting. The one who let herself be seen, even in her nervousness.
I’ve been single for a while now — not because I was waiting, but because I was building. For 3–4 years, I poured myself into work, my dream, my business, my family, my closest friends, my pets. I traveled a lot. I learned. I rebuilt myself and my life. I went to therapy and even took medication. I survived seasons that required everything from me. And I came out softer, steadier, more myself than I’ve ever been. Somewhere along the way, I created a life I’m genuinely content with. A life that doesn’t feel empty. A life that I no longer want to escape from. A life I’m proud to return to — whether I’m holding someone’s hand or not.
So maybe that’s why this encounter felt different.
It didn’t make me desperate for more. It didn’t make me spiral into fantasy (well maybe for just a few days). It simply reminded me that my heart still knows how to flutter — gently, quietly, in a way that doesn’t steal my peace.
And that realization felt precious:
I don’t need a partner to complete me,
but if someone adds warmth and softness to a life I already love… I’d welcome that.
And I hope to God it would not be someone who subtracts — but someone who complements.
This encounter didn’t promise anything. It didn’t need to. It just showed me that I’m able to show up with sincerity and courage — and still stay grounded in who I’ve become. And I realized something simple that day: You can’t lose someone who is not in your life yet. What exactly is there to be afraid of? Fear of embarrassment? It passes. Fear of being “too much”? It fades. Fear of disappointing someone who doesn’t even belong to your life yet? Doesn’t make sense.
So I held his hand. I hugged him fully. I laughed a lot and let myself be in the moment without calculating outcomes. Because life is a coin toss anyway — and I didn't want to be the person who's always betting on the side that protects me from nothing. Only when I choose the 50% can I gain courage, gain clarity, gain memories.
I don’t know what any of it means long-term.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe something small.
Maybe just a memory that will sit softly in my chest for a long time.
Maybe the story goes nowhere.
Maybe the story goes somewhere someday.
Even though there were promises, but I know the future is never guaranteed. But the softness of it stays with me — not because of him, but because of me. What matters is this: I showed up. I gave a thoughtful present. I leaned into the moment. I let myself be seen, even with the nerves humming under my skin. And for once, I didn’t shrink.
He wasn't mine to lose. But the moment was mine to keep. So I do. Softly.
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