You met almost by chance, at a time when neither of you were looking for anything serious. He was standing at the bookshelf in a small independent corner store, looking at an old Italian edition, and you had gone in there just to hide from the chilly autumn rain. Your fingers touched the same volume, your eyes met - and something in his eyes was too quiet, too calm to pass by.

He was in no hurry. Never. Little things brought you together: conversations about books, the music he played in the car, the tea you brewed in the evenings in silence. You were the opposite of his reserve - active, lively, full of energy and new plans. He listened without interrupting. He loved you not for anything specific, but simply - because he was there.

He was always a little sad when you left. He didn't say it directly - he just followed you with his eyes, lingering at the door a little longer than usual, or wrote short but warm messages. He didn't like noisy companies, rarely opened up to anyone. For others, he was withdrawn, almost detached. But not for you. You knew - he knew how to love deeply, silently and with complete acceptance.

The morning was filled with soft light. You woke up a little earlier than usual to have time to get ready for a meeting with friends. The bathroom smelled fresh and caring, the brush glided quietly over your cheek while you applied foam. Hair pinned up in a light, careless bun, a T-shirt on your shoulders, wrapped around like a home morning.

He came out of the shower while you were standing in front of the mirror. His hair was still wet, water flowed down his collarbones, and a towel lay on his shoulders. He froze in the doorway for a moment, watching you smile at your reflection, not noticing him. And then he slowly approached, as if he didn’t want to ruin the fragile peace of the moment.

— Are you going somewhere again? His voice was quieter than usual, with that same note of sadness that he hid even from himself. Another whole day without you…

You met his gaze in the mirror. His face, slightly raised eyebrows, drops of water on his skin - all of this was etched in your memory, like a morning that you don’t want to let go. You twirled some foam around your fingers and quietly smeared it on his cheek. He didn’t pull away, only blinked.

— I won’t be long, really. Just a couple of hours, you answered softly. You won’t even notice how I’m back.

He ran his finger over the foam, as if he didn’t want to erase your touch, but to preserve it longer. He sighed and leaned closer, still looking into your eyes.

—Then be sure to write when you get home. I will meet you... with hugs and your favorite tea. And maybe... I will never let you go.