I lost my ex during a party. I found him having pleasure with another girl in a room. I lost my new boyfriend at a party last night. He was sitting on the back steps with a cup of warm soda, talking to an old man about sadness.
The man spoke with shaking hands in a worn flannel shirt. Alex, my lover, leaned forward to listen. Drawn brows showed he was attempting to absorb every word. Not what I expected. With my guard up, I prepared to be hurt again. I was stopped by what I saw.
In order not to interrupt, I stood in the doorway and watched. Loud, chest-thumping music played indoors. The porch light and night sky made it feel like an other universe.
The old man touched Alex’s shoulder and gently stood. He passed me with a nod and vanished into the night.
Alex looked at me. “Hey,” he said, astonished but not guilty. Just warm, open. “I wondered where you were.”
A little laughter. “I was about to say the same.”
He patted the step next to him, and I sat. We listened to the night noises and muted turmoil inside for a moment before speaking.
“He lost his wife last year,” Alex replied finally. “Been coming to these parties to feel less alone, I think.”
Looked at him sideways. “And you were just talking?”
Shrugging. “Yeah. He claimed I resembled his son. To tell someone about her.”
I remember that moment well from the night. Going into that party, I was convinced something would go wrong. That love couldn’t change this time. But Alex, sitting there listening to a stranger talk about grief he hadn’t known, told me something vital.
But that was just the start.
Three months had passed since we started dating. Just enough time to hope, not trust. However, that night softened me.
Things became better after that. Not flawless, but real. We sometimes clashed about little things like who forgot to purchase oat milk or what to watch on Friday nights. But Alex had a stability I wasn’t used to. He didn’t shout. His presence persisted. He didn’t make me feel too big.
I was having a bad workday one afternoon. I cried for five minutes in the restroom after messing up a client report. Alex arrived outside my building with iced coffee and a silly homemade sign that read, “You’ve survived 100% of your worst days so far.”
He said nothing while holding it. Stand there until I came out.
I wanted to cry again, but for a good reason, since everyone was smiling and pointing. I felt noticed and loved.
Life tests excellent things.
At six months into our relationship, Drew, Alex’s younger brother, had a horrible vehicle accident. His age was 22. No one predicted it. He went from emailing Alex about borrowing a sweater to being in a coma.
Everything changed.
Alex started spending every free hour in the hospital. Sleep deprivation darkened his eyes. He ate less and smiled less. Despite bringing him meals and waiting with him, I sometimes felt absolutely isolated.
I went to the hospital one night after work. He never responded to my texts all day. I found him with Emily in the ICU waiting area. Her and Drew were close friends. Delicate, blonde, crying on Alex’s shoulder.
Something sharp twisted my chest.
I stood silently watching her hand on his knee. Jealousy made me despise myself. I turned to go but the elevator seemed slow. Alex started sprinting before I pressed the button.
“Hey! Where are you going?
I turned. “I just dropped off food. You seemed busy.”
He blinks. What? No, it’s not like that. She seems to have been around forever. It hurts her too.”
I regarded him. “I know. I just… Where do I fit into your life now?
Stepped forward. Yes, here. You are here. Yes, I’ve gone everywhere. I swear I see you. I need you.”
He convinced me. However, I felt like I was on an unstable edge.
A few more weeks, we persisted. Drew’s coma recovery was miraculous. He had to learn to walk and talk again. But he lived. Slowly, things stabilized.
One night, Alex invited me to dinner at his flat. He was smiling after making pasta, even though he burned the sauce and neglected to salt the water. Genuinely smiling.
After eating on paper plates on the floor, he took out a little notebook.
What’s that? I requested.
He grins. “I wrote things down. Things to remember. Like the coffee sign. We noticed the old man dancing alone in the park. Or when you made me do yoga and fell.”
He gave me the journal. “I want to remember good things. Not to forget.”
I held the book long. “Really wrote all this?”
He nodded. Please write in it too. Just anytime. About us. About life.”
Most lovely gift I’ve ever received.
I didn’t expect the twist.
I discovered my mom had breast cancer three weeks later. Stage two. It required surgery and chemo. I broke down suddenly. Done answering texts. I wanted no one to see me cry.
But Alex didn’t run.
He brought food. Soft sweaters, hand lotion, and trashy flicks. He took me to appointments. He sat next to me throughout insomnia.
After a difficult hospital day, I broke down one night. I told him I feared she wouldn’t survive. Not knowing how to continue.
He took out the notebook. “Let’s record something good from today.”
I thought he was nuts. Are you serious?
“Yes,” he responded softly. “Even if tiny.”
I contemplated. “She laughed today. Genuine laughter. When the nurse dropped a bedpan.”
He grinned. Write that down.”
So I did.
Writing continued.
My mom recovered.
No overnight. She gradually strengthened. Chemo worked. Surgery went fine. Her hair grew back.
Her remission was celebrated with a backyard picnic. She cooked her renowned lemon bars, and Alex carried everything outside like he knew her forever.
The second twist followed.
A job in another city was offered. A great chance. My dream job. It meant moving three hours away.
His expression froze when I told Alex.
After pausing, he said, “I’m proud of you. Yes, I am. But what does that mean for us?
Nobody told me.
A long time passed in stillness.
I concluded that it implies we try. Avoid losing this. Want to keep you.”
We tried.
Traveling far was hard. Missed calls and lonely evenings. We wrote letters. Real ones. We visited and wrote in the notebook. It contained memories like a time capsule we kept adding to.
When I returned home, I saw a message on my flat door.
“Come find me where we first really met.”
First, I was bewildered. But then I remembered—that party’s back steps. The night he spoke to the old man.
Heart racing, I drove over.
He sat in the same location again. He stood and extended a hand to me.
No music this time. Birds in the trees and distant cars.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he continued.
He took out the notebook. He turned to the last page. Will you marry me?
I cried before agreeing.
Fairy lights illuminated our modest wedding. My mom walked me down the aisle. Drew’s speech made everyone laugh and cry. And that old man? He was there too. His name was George. Alex kept in touch after that first night. Monthly lunches were held.
I danced with George at reception. “He’s good,” he muttered. Hold tight.”
And I did.
Our lives wasn’t perfect. But it happened.
We occasionally quarrel over oat milk. But we always meet again.
Still writing in the notebook.
Thicker now. Baby footprints, movie tickets, failed recipes, and answered prayers.
Sometimes people associate love with fireworks. Constant butterflies.
I think remaining matters. As for listening. About repeatedly choosing each other.
I would never have found Alex with his knees bent, heart exposed, listening to a stranger if I hadn’t lost him at that party.
Sometimes losing someone reveals their true nature.
The lesson I learned: Notice calm periods. True love is there.
If you discover someone to write your novel page-by-page with you, keep them.
Please share if it moved you. Perhaps it will restore hope in love. 💛
