I Went On A Date Thinking I’d Met Someone Special, But His Next Call Changed Everything
It started with a spark. Not the kind that blinds you, but the kind that glows steady—warm, promising. We met at a bookstore, of all places. He was standing in front of the poetry shelf, thumbing through Neruda. I made a joke about love poems being emotional landmines, and he laughed like he’d been waiting for someone to say that.
We talked for twenty minutes before either of us remembered we had places to be. He asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime. I said yes, and for once, I meant it.
The date was simple. A quiet café, mismatched mugs, the kind of conversation that loops and lingers. He asked questions that felt like invitations, not interrogations. I told him about my garden, about Dusty June, the rose that bloomed crooked but proud. He told me about his old motorcycle, the one he named Echo because it always sounded like it was remembering something.
We walked for hours after coffee. Through side streets and stories. He didn’t try to impress me—he just showed up as himself. And I liked him. Not in the dizzy, dangerous way. In the way that felt like maybe, just maybe, I’d met someone who saw the world the way I did: as a gallery of imperfect beauty.
When I got home, I texted him: Thanks for today. You felt like a poem.
He replied: You felt like the last line I didn’t know I needed.
I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.
For the next few days, we talked constantly. Voice notes, late-night texts, shared playlists. He sent me a photo of his motorcycle parked under a jacaranda tree. I sent him a picture of Ophelia, my stubborn lily that refused to bloom until I played jazz in the garden.
It felt easy. It felt rare.
Then came the call.
I was repotting Riot, my wild marigold, when my phone rang. His name lit up the screen. I answered with a grin.
But his voice was different. Tight. Hesitant.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
I sat down in the dirt.
He’d gone on another date. Two days before ours. It was someone he’d matched with weeks ago, someone who reached out again. He said he didn’t expect it to mean anything, and it didn’t. But he felt he had to be honest.
“I didn’t want to lie,” he said. “But I also didn’t want to lose you.”
I didn’t speak for a moment. The silence stretched like a thread pulled too tight.
“I thought we were on the same page,” I said quietly.
“I did too,” he replied. “But I panicked. I’m not good at this. At feelings. At choosing.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to rewind to the bookstore and walk away before the spark ever lit.
But I didn’t do any of that.
Instead, I asked, “Did you feel something with her?”
“No,” he said. “Not like with you.”
And that was the problem. Because with me had already begun to mean something. And now it meant something else.
We talked for an hour. About fear, about timing, about how people sabotage good things because they don’t believe they deserve them. He cried. I didn’t. I was too busy trying to keep my heart from cracking open like a dropped teacup.
When we hung up, I sat in the garden until the sun dipped below the fence. Riot leaned toward me like she understood.
The next day, he sent flowers. Not roses. Wildflowers. Unruly, bright, chaotic. A note tucked inside read: I’m sorry. I’m still learning how to be someone worth staying for.
I didn’t reply.
Because here’s the thing: I went on a date thinking I’d met someone special. And maybe I did. But special isn’t enough. Not if it comes with confusion and half-truths and the kind of honesty that arrives too late.
I don’t need perfect. I don’t need polished. But I need someone who chooses me without flinching.
So I planted the wildflowers in the corner of the garden. Named them Echo. Not for him. For the memory of what almost was.
And every time they bloom, I remember that spark. That walk. That moment in the café when I thought I’d found a last line.
Turns out, I was just writing the prologue.
