A Novel Inspired by a True Story
Two souls. An unexpected encounter. A summer that didn’t end when the holiday did.
Characters and identifying details have been fictionalized. Dialogue and inner reflections are literary reconstructions.
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Chapter I — The Person Who Knew My Table
I hadn’t gone on holiday to meet someone. I already had enough to carry: a home, a child, a life divided between responsibilities and all the things I kept putting off for myself. All I wanted was a few days of sunshine, the sea, and mornings without an alarm.
It never crossed my mind that I would eventually find myself counting the days until I could see someone again. Someone who, at first, didn’t even know my name.
At the hotel, the mornings all looked the same. Tourists hurried towards their coffee, cutlery clattered against plates, someone laughed a little too loudly, and the staff moved between the tables with an almost invisible kind of skill.
That was where I first noticed that person. A quiet presence, with a particular way of paying attention to everything around them without seeming to make any effort. I knew nothing about the person standing before me. Not their age, not their story, not even the language in which the words “I miss you” would have sounded most sincere.
I began noticing the smallest things.
At the table, my napkins never stayed where I left them. Someone always made sure to collect them.
Maybe it was simply part of the job. Maybe it wasn’t. But I had started recognising those footsteps, searching almost unconsciously for that familiar presence among the people around me.
Someone can become important long before a single declaration is made. Sometimes, everything begins with a hand picking up napkins from a table. Whenever I sensed that person approaching, I pretended to be busy. I looked at my plate, my glass, my phone. Then I would lift my eyes and catch a gaze resting on me. I didn’t know what it meant. I only knew that hiding my smile was becoming harder every day.
One day, I finally found the courage to start a conversation. Just a few simple words. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing that, from the outside, could have suggested the beginning of a story. And then came the question.
“When are you leaving?”
It caught me off guard. It was one of those ordinary questions that suddenly carries an unexpected weight when asked by the right person. I gave the date. I can’t remember whether I smiled before or afterwards. What I do remember is that, shortly after, there was a desire to stay connected beyond the walls of that hotel. We exchanged Instagram accounts. Such an ordinary gesture in today’s world. And yet, to me, it meant that perhaps this encounter didn’t have to end when the holiday did.
That evening, I opened the app far more often than necessary. I found it ridiculous. I had an entire life waiting for me back home, and yet there I was, staring at a screen like a teenager discovering the excitement of a first message. When the first sign appeared that we could talk beyond the dining room, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. A beginning.
I didn’t know what it would mean.
Perhaps that person didn’t know either. But back then, our story possessed a simple kind of beauty. Neither of us had left yet. Neither of us had pulled away. Neither of us had learned to remain silent when words were needed most. And a question about the day I would return home sounded almost like an invitation not to lose each other.
To be continued…
