The First Time There Were No Screens

By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, I think my heart had already arrived before I did.

Face masks were still part of everyday life then.

So when I hurried toward his car, my face remained hidden behind one.

I opened the passenger door.

And before hello.

Before awkwardness.

Before all the scenarios I had spent the week imagining.

He looked at me and asked, "Why the face mask?"

I laughed softly and pulled it down.

And then, with the same certainty he seemed to carry into everything, he smiled.

"I was right," he said.

"You are beautiful."

To this day, I don't remember exactly what expression crossed my face.

Only that I smiled.

Not because I knew what to say.

But because I didn't.

Compliments that sincere have a way of making you feel strangely shy.

Trying to recover, I immediately started explaining where he should have turned.

Apparently, he had missed the drop-off area and was supposed to make a left turn at the corner.

At least, I think that's what I was saying.

Because even now, when I replay that moment in my mind, I don't remember whether he was actually listening.

His eyes hardly left my face.

And while I was busy explaining directions, he seemed more interested in reaching for my hand.

As though the last few weeks had simply continued where they had left off.

As though this wasn't really a first meeting.

As though we'd merely been separated for a little while.

And suddenly, I remembered something he had told me days earlier.

That perhaps we were simply making up for lost time.

Back then, I had laughed.

It sounded ridiculous.

Impossible, even.

But sitting beside him that evening, with his hand searching for mine and his eyes refusing to look away, I wasn't so sure anymore.

Because what surprised me most wasn't that there were no awkward silences.

Or that conversation came easily.

It was something much simpler than that.

It was the strange feeling that nothing about this felt new.

And perhaps that was what frightened me.

Because familiar things have a way of making themselves at home inside you.

Long before you realize you've opened the door.

And somewhere between missing the turn and finding my hand—

I think something else had already found its way to me.