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One October, after a match on the internet, the game permanently changed for me.
After a few messages back and forth, and seeing his warmth flood the screen, I decided to meet him on a Tuesday night.
It was late, 11 p.m. late—my witching hour. The time when my soul suddenly awakens, steps out of its skin, awaiting the magic of the moon. But I acquiesced to the last-minute plans, knowing his curly dark hair and menacing brown eyes were something special.
I was upstairs in my third-floor apartment, watching the clock to make sure I didn’t go to the lobby too early. And then I got the text: “Where should I park?”
I gulped the rest of my wine and ran down the stairwell to meet him. He steadily walked toward me with his hands in his gray, thrifted Eddie Bauer pants and matching utility jacket. I was greeted with warmth—close to his chest.
For the next few weeks, we were inseparable; we spent every single night together, just being. I had never felt this type of peace and acceptance from another human.
Every time I saw him, my body responded—my soul jumped. He was someone I knew from lives before; I was just meeting him again in this one.
He made me a playlist full of music I hadn’t heard before. It was music that spoke his language, and I wanted to become fluent. There was something both languid and fierce about our connection.
He wrote to me with the same fervor that an artist paints his muse.
He looked at me—he saw me—under the veil and beneath the insecurities. He held space for me to start blooming.
It was anything but cliché for me; it was transcending.
He was a conduit to my most authentic self.
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