I wasn’t exactly the poster child for romance. My friends liked to say that I approached life like a careful accountant—numbers in neat rows, emotions double-checked before release. Love, in my view, was something people invented to sell novels and movie tickets. At best, I expected mild companionship, not fireworks.
But then came that evening in Rhode Island when the universe decided to prove me wrong.
It started at a party I had no business attending—crowded rooms, music that shook the floor, and food whose exact origin I preferred not to investigate. I was already mapping my exit strategy when I saw her. She wasn’t tall, her dark hair cropped short, but she carried herself with a confidence that instantly set her apart.
I must have looked hopelessly awkward, standing in the corner, clutching a cup I didn’t want. She walked right up to me, smiled, and said, “Hello, I’m Pooja.” Simple, direct, without fuss. I mumbled my name in return, grateful for her ease. We exchanged a few polite words before the noise swallowed us again, and the night drifted on.
That was our first meeting.
Weeks later, fate nudged us again. I was cutting across the snowy lawns at the University of Rhode Island when I heard someone call out. It was her. This time, there was no crowd, no thumping music—just the two of us and the sound of boots crunching on snow. We fell into step, talking about classes, professors, and the odd little town we both now called home. By the time we reached the other side of the campus, a friendship had quietly begun.
Kingston had its own rhythm—icy winters, lazy buses, a campus that seemed smaller the longer you stayed. Within that quiet, our friendship deepened. We walked through the streets, shared mediocre cafeteria meals, lingered on park benches, and filled long evenings with talk. She had a laugh that could brighten the dullest afternoon, but she also carried silences that made me wonder what she was thinking.
I kept meaning to tell her she was beautiful. Each time, the words dissolved before leaving my mouth. Old habits die hard.
It was midwinter, snow thick across the university lawns. We had wandered out after her shift, the world muted beneath white. Our boots left parallel tracks, our breath rising like smoke in the fading light. We stopped near a row of trees, branches heavy with snow, the campus almost deserted.
She said something I didn’t quite catch—maybe a joke, maybe a question. But when I looked at her, all I saw was the way the snow clung to her hair, the flush on her cheeks, and the quiet warmth in her eyes. For once, hesitation didn’t have the upper hand.
I reached out, brushing the damp from her hair, and in that simple gesture something passed between us. She didn’t step back. Instead, she tilted her face slightly, as if the choice belonged to both of us. When our lips met, it wasn’t a single spark but a slow, steady fire catching hold.
We kissed for what felt like forever—tentative at first, then deepening, our arms wrapping tight against the cold. The snow fell softly around us, muffling the world until it felt like we were the only two people alive. Time stretched. The universe, usually so impatient, gave us that one suspended moment.
When we finally broke apart, she laughed—low, breathless, a little surprised. I laughed too, mostly in relief, as if we had both been holding our breath for months and only now remembered how to exhale. We didn’t speak about it afterward, but the memory hung between us, like a secret only we could share.
For a while, everything seemed different. Our conversations grew easier, our silences more comfortable. Yet I still couldn’t quite bring myself to say the words I knew she was waiting to hear. Old caution reasserted itself.
As the months turned, I began to sense her pulling away. Not abruptly—just little gaps, missed walks, excuses that felt polite but distant. “Not tonight,” she said once when I suggested retracing our snowy path. I nodded, but inside I knew that “not tonight” could stretch on indefinitely.
By summer, the distance was undeniable. The day she left, we met at the station. She looked calm, almost serene, suitcase at her side. We talked about ordinary things—her travel plans, my next semester, the weather. No mention of the lawns, the kiss, or the closeness we’d shared. When the train arrived, she smiled, waved, and disappeared.
Years have gone by since then. I’ve finished degrees, taken jobs, checked off milestones. Yet every winter, when the first snow falls, my mind drifts back to that afternoon on the URI lawns. I remember how time slowed, how two people forgot their hesitations long enough to find each other.
We didn’t make promises we couldn’t keep. We simply lived that moment as fully as we could.
And in the end, the truth is simple: we did not stay together forever.