Barcelona

I didn’t plan to be here. Not today. Not like this.

Fourteen-year-old me thought first love lasted forever. We’d hold hands after school, share milkshakes, tell each other secrets we swore no one else would hear. And then—she told me she was moving to Spain. Barcelona.

We tried to keep in touch, and for years, we did. Birthdays. Christmas. Quick “I’m proud of you” messages after races. She’d text me “I miss you,” and I’d reply the same. Always followed by: We should meet. Always followed by… nothing.

This summer break was supposed to be different. Golf trip with the guys. No drama. Just fun.

Then I saw it.

Her latest photo on Instagram. She was standing by the beach at sunset, hair glowing in the orange light, holding a cone of melting ice cream. And beneath it—some guy’s comment:

“Okay, that’s it. Will you marry me already?”

She’d replied with a laughing emoji and “Haha, you’re ridiculous”.

But it didn’t matter. My stomach twisted. My jaw locked. All I could think was—why him? Why not me? Why have I been letting years slip by like sand through my fingers?

I realised, in that moment, I’d been a coward. I’d hidden behind texts and excuses while she’d been living her life. I wasn’t going to lose her to some guy with a joke proposal in a comment section.

Which is how I ended up here, in Barcelona, standing outside her apartment door. The late afternoon heat clung to me, my palms sweaty, my heart pounding like the starting lights had just gone out.

The doorbell felt heavier than it should. I pressed it anyway.

Footsteps.

The door opened. She stood there, eyes wide in shock, mouth slightly open.

“Lando?”

I swallowed, tried to sound casual. “I was… in the neighbourhood.”

Her lips curved into the kind of smile that had haunted me for years. She laughed softly, and before I could stop myself, I was pulling her into my arms.

This time, I wasn’t going to let go.