Chapter Thirteen: When we feel in Love
The next morning arrived in a haze of pale sunlight and half-remembered dreams. My eyes opened to the sight of my bedroom ceiling, the same crack in the paint I'd stared at a thousand times. For a moment, I let myself imagine a different reality—one where Hector was just in the other room, brewing coffee, ready to kiss me good morning. The ache that followed that thought was so sharp I almost couldn't breathe.
But reality was unyielding: Hector was gone, and I was alone, with nothing but a cryptic code and a handful of memories. And yet, those memories were precious. They reminded me why I couldn't just let him vanish without a fight.
I dragged myself out of bed, determined not to wallow. If I was going to find Hector, I needed clarity—needed to remember exactly what bound us together in the first place. Perhaps in those recollections, I'd find the strength to keep searching.
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A Quiet Morning, A Lingering Hope
The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I made tea instead of coffee, the latter too entwined with memories of Hector's warm smile. Settling at the small dining table, I sipped the steaming liquid and let my mind drift back to the early days of our relationship, before secrets and danger crept in.
I opened my laptop, hoping to distract myself with mundane tasks, but a single glance at my background photo—a candid shot of Hector and me on a weekend trip—told me distraction wasn't possible. His laughter in that picture was infectious, and I felt a pang of longing. There was no escaping him, not in my thoughts or my digital life.
I closed the laptop with a sigh, deciding to embrace the memories instead of running from them.
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Flashback: The Early Days
We'd exchanged numbers after that first café meeting, both of us unsure if the other would actually reach out. I remember the flutter in my chest when my phone buzzed two nights later, an unknown number:
Hector: Hey, it's the coffee rescuer. How's your boss treating you this week?
I'd laughed aloud, ignoring the curious glance from my roommate at the time. We ended up texting for hours, discovering shared interests—books, a love of spicy food, a mild obsession with old detective movies. He was witty, self-deprecating, and surprisingly sweet in his compliments.
The first official date happened a week later, at a tiny Lebanese restaurant near my office. I arrived early, nerves twisting my stomach. Would our chemistry in texts hold up in person?
The moment he walked in, all smiles and warm eyes, my anxieties faded. We talked about everything and nothing—our childhoods, his vague "government contract" work, my half-baked dream of starting my own marketing firm someday. He listened intently, never once seeming bored. By the time dessert arrived, I realized I hadn't felt so alive in ages.
Our next few weeks were a whirlwind of late-night calls, stolen lunch breaks, and weekend adventures exploring hidden corners of the city. I learned he was protective, always insisting on walking me home, scanning the streets like he was searching for threats. At first, I found it oddly charming; later, I realized it was more than just courtesy—he was trained to be cautious.
We fell into a comfortable pattern. Hector cooked for me once—pasta that ended up slightly burnt—but I appreciated the effort. I teased him mercilessly about it, and he took it in stride, retorting that my sense of direction in the kitchen was nonexistent. In those moments, the banter, the laughter, it felt like we'd known each other for years.
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Present Day: Searching for Comfort
The kettle whistled on the stove, jolting me from my memories. I realized my tea had gone cold, so I poured the water and made a fresh cup. My eyes lingered on the photograph pinned to the fridge—a snapshot of Hector and me at the local farmers' market, him holding a bag of fresh peppers, me wearing a wide-brimmed hat. I traced the outline of his face through the glossy paper, remembering how he'd insisted on buying peppers so spicy they made me tear up when we cooked them.
Back at the dining table, I opened my phone's gallery, scrolling through pictures of those early days. A pang of sorrow mingled with the warmth of nostalgia. It struck me that, for all our closeness, Hector had never fully opened up about his work. I'd sensed there was more beneath the surface, but I'd been so enamored with who he was as a person that I never pushed too hard.
Now I wished I had.
Still, there were no regrets about how we fell in love. I could see it in the progression of photos: from polite smiles to silly grins, from separate seats to cuddling close. Hector had this way of making me feel safe, like no matter what happened in the world, he'd protect me. And for a time, that was enough.
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Flashback: The Weekend Trip
The memory of our first weekend getaway floated to the surface. We'd driven a few hours out of town to a lakeside cabin he'd found online. I teased him that it was suspiciously private, but he just laughed and said he wanted somewhere quiet, away from the city noise.
I remember the wind rustling the tall grasses around the lake, the reflection of clouds rippling across the water. Hector seemed lighter out there, less guarded. We spent hours kayaking, or rather, I flailed with the paddle while he tried to teach me proper form. Our laughter echoed across the water when I nearly tipped us over.
That night, we sat by a small fire, stars glittering overhead. He told me stories of traveling—never specifics about where, just mentions of places far away, deserts and mountains. I teased him, calling him a mystery man, and he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "Someday I'll tell you more," he'd whispered, and I believed him.
We ended that trip lying in a hammock, my head on his chest, listening to the crickets. I felt his heart beating, steady and sure. In that moment, I thought, This is it. This is what it feels like to be truly content. And I held onto him, never imagining he'd slip through my fingers.