Letters to a Love Lost

The Moment I Met Her

The moment I met her wasn't extraordinary. There were no dazzling lights, no invisible violin playing to announce her arrival. But now, looking back, I realize it was the moment my world began to spin in a completely new direction, one that would change everything.

It was an ordinary afternoon in an ordinary park. Leaves fell in slow spirals from the trees, and the air smelled of damp earth after a light morning rain. I was sitting on a bench with an open book in my hands, though I wasn't really reading. My eyes wandered across the horizon, trapped in the monotony of days that seemed endless.

And then, I saw her.

Astrid walked with such natural grace that she seemed completely unaware of her own beauty. Her hair fell in soft cascades over her shoulders, and her eyes, warm and serene, seemed to hold entire universes. There was something about her presence that made everything else fade into the background. In that moment, I had the strange sense that something important had just happened, though I couldn't explain why.

Instinctively, my mind drifted to the myth of Eurydice. The woman Orpheus loved so much that he ventured into the underworld to bring her back. It made no sense, but something about Astrid—about the way she existed—made me think she was my own Eurydice. It was an absurd and premature comparison, but I couldn't help it. There was something about her that felt destined to change me.

Astrid held a notebook in her hands and seemed absorbed, as if the rest of the world didn't exist. I wondered what she was writing—scattered thoughts, perhaps, or something more deliberate, like a poem. For a moment, I hesitated to approach her, afraid of breaking the bubble that surrounded her, but something in me pushed forward. Maybe it was the small, almost shy smile that appeared on her lips when she saw me.

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The First Encounter

I don't know what made me talk to her. Maybe it was the sudden impulse to fill the emptiness that had been growing inside me, or maybe it was that smile—it felt like an invitation. I walked toward her with more nervousness than I was willing to admit.

"Excuse me, may I sit here?" I asked, pointing to the bench where she had taken a seat.

Astrid looked up from her notebook, and for a moment, she seemed to weigh my intentions. Her gaze was calm but inquisitive, as if she were evaluating me. Then, she smiled again, and something about that smile made me feel as though I had won a small battle.

"Sure," she replied softly.

We sat in silence for a while. I didn't want to interrupt her—she seemed to be writing something important, and I didn't want to intrude. But then, as if I couldn't help myself, I asked:

"What are you writing?"

Astrid hesitated for a moment before closing her notebook and turning toward me.

"Nothing important. Just thoughts I don't want to forget."

I stayed silent, processing her words. There was something about the way she said it that intrigued me, as if those thoughts were treasures only she could decipher. That answer was enough to open a portal. We started talking, cautiously at first and then with a natural ease that surprised me. We talked about books, music, and the park we were in. Her laughter was a soft, contagious sound, and the more we talked, the more I found myself drawn not just to what she said, but to how she said it.

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Love Blooms

I don't know the exact moment I fell in love with her. Maybe it was the day she showed me her poems, or the night we spent talking under a starry sky, when she confessed her fears and dreams. Astrid had the ability to make the ordinary seem extraordinary, and I found myself wanting to be part of her world in every possible way.

Our love wasn't immediate or passionate from the start. It was like a plant growing slowly, rooting itself deeply before emerging to the surface. But when it finally bloomed, it did so with an intensity that left me breathless.

I remember one afternoon in particular, when we were at the park where we first met. She brought her notebook and showed me a poem. It was a mix of simple yet profound words, speaking of goodbyes and letting go.

"Is it autobiographical?" I asked her.

She shook her head, but her eyes drifted back to the poem.

"No… but I think every goodbye leaves something in you, even when it's not yours."

It was in that moment I realized Astrid saw the world in a way that was completely different from mine. What I overlooked, she found fascinating, even poetic.

Astrid became my anchor and my inspiration. She was my reason to wake up every day, my refuge in a world that often felt chaotic and disheartening. And though I never told her directly, she must have known. I could see it in the way she looked at me, as if she could read everything my heart wanted to say but couldn't find the words for.

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A Love Full of Promises

We spoke about our future as if it were certain, as if it were inevitable. We dreamed of travels, of projects together, of long, quiet days where nothing would matter more than each other's company.

"Do you think love can last forever?" she asked me one night as we lay on the grass, staring at the stars.

"If it's with you, yes," I answered without hesitation.

She didn't reply, but her smile, illuminated by the faint light of the moon, said it all.

In that moment, I didn't know I was making a promise I wouldn't be able to keep.