Dear You,

Some moments carve themselves into your memory so deeply that they become impossible to forget. That night with you? It’s burned into my mind, as vivid as if it just happened yesterday.

I didn’t know what to expect. It had been years since I’d agreed to a blind date—years of living a life that felt predictable, safe, and quietly hollow. I didn’t want to go, if I’m being honest. But something about the way my friend described you—your wit, your confidence, your warmth—made me curious. Enough to throw on a blazer, swallow my nerves, and walk into that dimly lit restaurant where everything would change.

When I saw you sitting there, I almost stopped in my tracks.

You were at the bar, nursing a glass of red wine, your legs crossed gracefully, a soft smile playing at your lips as you scrolled on your phone. You weren’t just beautiful—you were magnetic. Something about you radiated this quiet strength, this unspoken allure that pulled me toward you before I even realized my feet were moving.

You looked up when I approached, and the moment our eyes met, something shifted. Time slowed. The noise of the bustling restaurant dulled to a hum. For a heartbeat, it was just us.

“Hi,” I managed, feeling both bold and ridiculously out of my depth. “Are you waiting for me?”

Your smile widened. “That depends,” you teased, tilting your head. “Are you the one I’m supposed to be impressed by tonight?”

We found our table, tucked away in a cozy corner of the restaurant where the lighting was soft, almost intimate. The server poured us wine, but I barely noticed. I was too captivated by you—by the way you laughed, the way your eyes sparkled when you told me about your work, the way you listened with such focus when I spoke, as though nothing else mattered.

It wasn’t just conversation; it was connection. Real, raw, and electrifying. We didn’t talk about the mundane—no small talk about the weather or traffic. Instead, we dove into the kind of topics that left me feeling exposed in the best way: the books that shaped us, the dreams we had as kids, the moments in our lives we didn’t share with just anyone.

You told me about the passion you’d buried under years of obligations. The parts of yourself you’d forgotten, the ones that surfaced only in stolen moments of solitude. I told you about my restlessness, the way it gnawed at me even when life seemed “perfect” on the outside.

And then there were the silences.

Not awkward, not empty. Just heavy with unspoken tension, a simmering undercurrent of something neither of us dared to name. Your fingers toyed with the stem of your glass, your eyes lingering on mine a little longer each time. I could feel it building between us, this magnetic pull, this need that neither of us acknowledged but both of us felt.

By the time the restaurant started winding down for the night, I didn’t want to leave. I suggested another drink, half-hoping you’d say yes, half-afraid you wouldn’t.

“I think we’ve had enough drinks,” you said with a sly smile, standing and grabbing your coat. “But you can walk me to my car.”

Outside, the city was alive—soft rain falling, streetlights glowing, the faint hum of traffic in the distance. You walked close to me, your shoulder brushing against mine, the scent of your perfume wrapping around me like a spell.

I don’t know why I hesitated when we reached your car. Maybe it was nerves, or maybe it was the sheer weight of the moment. I wanted to kiss you, needed to, but I wasn’t bold enough to make the first move.

You were.

You turned to me, your lips curving into a knowing smile. “You’re not going to make me wait all night, are you?”

Before I could respond, your hands were in my jacket, pulling me closer. And then your lips were on mine, soft but insistent, teasing but hungry.

The world blurred. The rain, the cars, the distant city sounds—they all disappeared. There was only you.

I kissed you back, my hands finding your waist, pulling you against me. You sighed softly, your breath warm against my cheek, your fingers tangling in my hair. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a declaration, a release, a moment of pure, unfiltered desire.

My lips traced a path from your mouth to your jaw, your neck, savoring the taste of your skin, the way you shivered under my touch. You whispered my name, and I swear, it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

I didn’t want to stop. But the rain grew heavier, soaking through our coats, forcing us apart. You laughed, breathless and beautiful, your face flushed as you wiped a raindrop from your cheek.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, your voice steady despite the heat still lingering between us.

I believed you.

But tomorrow came and went, and the call never came.

At first, I told myself you’d forgotten. Then I convinced myself you’d lost my number. But as the days turned into weeks, I knew better.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to let it go.

I keep replaying that night in my head, searching for answers. Did I misread you? Did I do something wrong? Or was it something else entirely? Fear? Guilt? Something neither of us could control?

I wish I could ask you, but all I have now are questions. And this unbearable ache that lingers every time I think of you.

You see, it wasn’t just a kiss that night. It was a reminder—a revelation—that life could be more. That I could be more. That there’s still passion, still desire, still connection waiting to be found in this world.

And now that I’ve had a taste of it, I can’t go back to the way things were before.

Wherever you are, whatever made you disappear, I hope you know this: I felt something real that night. And I think you did too.

If I’m wrong, if it was all just a moment for you, then I’ll find a way to move on. But if you’re out there, thinking about me the way I’m thinking about you, don’t let this be the end.

Please.

Come back to me.

Yours,
The man who hasn’t stopped thinking about you.