The Way We Almost Were
I met Mira on a rainy Tuesday.
Not the kind of rain people remember—no thunder, no drama. Just thin, stubborn rain that soaked into your clothes and mood without asking permission.
She was standing at the bus stop, holding a broken umbrella, arguing softly with herself.
"This thing hates me," she muttered.
I smiled before I realized it.
"Most umbrellas do," I said.
She looked at me then. Not smiling. Just curious. Like she was deciding whether I was safe enough to talk to.
That was our beginning.
No sparks. No destiny. Just two strangers waiting for the same late bus.
Small Things Becoming Important
We started seeing each other again and again. Same bus. Same time. Same awkward nods turning into conversations.
Mira worked at a small publishing office. I was a junior architect who hated most of my designs. We talked about tired things—work, bad coffee, childhood memories that weren't exciting enough to tell anyone else.
What surprised me was how easy it felt.
With Mira, silence wasn't embarrassing. It was…comfortable. Like sitting beside someone on a long train ride, not needing to entertain each other.
One evening, she said,
"I think people try too hard to be impressive."
I nodded.
"I think that's why most relationships fail."
She didn't look at me. But her fingers moved a little closer to mine on the bus seat.
Love Without Announcements
We never officially started dating.
We just…started choosing each other.
She began saving me the corner seat at her favorite café. I started walking slower so she wouldn't have to rush. We learned each other's quiet habits—how she stirred her tea three times exactly, how I always checked exits without knowing why.
One night, while walking home, she said,
"If this ends, promise we won't pretend it didn't matter."
I laughed nervously.
"Why would it end?"
She stopped walking.
"Everything ends," she said gently. "I just want this to be honest while it's here."
That scared me more than love ever had.
The Thing We Didn't Talk About
Mira had an offer.
A job in another country. Better pay. Better future.
She didn't tell me at first. I found out by accident—an email flashing on her phone while she was ordering food.
She saw my face change.
"I didn't want to ruin what we have," she said later, sitting on the floor of her apartment. "I'm not even sure I'll go."
I wanted to say don't go.
I wanted to say stay for me.
But love isn't about holding someone still.
So I said,
"You should go if it's right for you."
She cried quietly after that. I held her like I was already losing her.
The Last Ordinary Day
We didn't break up.
We just counted days without naming them.
On her last evening, we cooked badly, laughed too much, and avoided the future completely. When it was time to say goodbye, she rested her forehead against mine.
"I think in another life, the timing works," she whispered.
I kissed her—not desperately, not dramatically—but like I wanted her to remember the feeling, not the pain.
After
She left.
Life continued, unfairly normal.
Sometimes I still take that bus on rainy days. The seat beside me stays empty. I don't check my phone as often anymore.
Once a year, Mira sends a message:
I still stir my tea three times.
I never reply with anything clever.
I just write back:
I still save the corner seat.
Ending
We didn't become a story people tell.
We became a memory that quietly shaped who we are.
And maybe that's what real love is—not always the one that stays,
but the one that teaches you how deeply you can feel,
even when you let go.