A decade ago, I met Colin on a random dating app, and from the first message, something immediately clicked. We spoke like old friends and teased like new lovers, but despite our chemistry, we never actually met. Colin worried that meeting might ruin the perfect virtual connection, but I wondered if it could instead be everything. He then made a wild proposal: a binding pact to meet in exactly ten years, but only if we were both still single. I agreed, laughing, and somehow, we stuck to this strange, romantic agreement. We stayed loosely in touch over the years—just enough with birthday messages and occasional song links—while we both dated other people, but I always felt that deep-seated curiosity about what could have been.
Last year, when I turned 35 and was single again, a message popped up: “Are we still on for next year?” After a witty exchange about gray hairs, we finally agreed on a date and time at a city café. I arrived early, hands trembling, convinced the whole situation felt entirely ridiculous and movie-like. Then, Colin walked in, taller and slightly scruffier than expected, wearing a navy coat, with the same charming crinkle near his eyes when he smiled. We stood there awkwardly until he held out his hand and said, “Ten years late, but nice to finally meet you.” The immense tension instantly broke with our shared, nervous laughter.
Over coffee, we talked effortlessly, just as we always had, but now with real eye contact and a hundred tiny new expressions that the screen had previously hidden. I learned that Colin worked in publishing, had a dog named Wallace, and still hated mushrooms, while he learned about my job in youth services and my plant-killing tendencies. We didn’t make any grand, bold declarations that day, but were simply two people catching up on a decade of almost-time. When we were about to leave, he hesitantly asked if seeing me again sooner than ten years would be strange, and I quickly countered with a plan for next Saturday. Just like that, we naturally slipped into a promising, real-world connection.
For the next few months, we were careful and slow, meeting every weekend for brunch, long walks, or sometimes when Colin brought Wallace, who invariably tried to sit in my lap immediately. We avoided mentioning the word “relationship,” letting the connection simply hover and deepen naturally. Things fundamentally shifted one night in December at a Christmas market, surrounded by twinkling lights and off-key carolers. Colin confessed that he never thought we would actually meet, and certainly never expected it to feel so much like “home.” It was wonderfully cheesy, and I sealed the moment by kissing him right there. The relationship instantly became more real; he started spending nights over, and I even met Wallace’s overly informed vet.
Then, in mid-February, Colin suddenly changed, becoming quiet and obviously distracted. He barely touched his beloved pancakes before rushing out with only a quick wave and a promise to call. A full week stretched into two with no response to my increasingly worried texts. This was not a ghosting situation; it was utterly confusing and deeply hurtful, especially after our shared history. I refused to spiral, but knew something was wrong. Finally, a handwritten letter arrived with no return address. Colin apologized for disappearing, revealing a devastating diagnosis of early-onset Parkinson’s, explaining he left because he didn’t want to be a terrible burden on someone who deserved a stable future.
I sat there staring at the letter, heartbroken but not angry, recognizing the sheer fear and powerful love woven into his written words. I quickly found him, thanks to a tip from his dog’s friendly vet clinic, and showed up at his flat with a thermos of soup and a binder of our first messages. He was stunned when he opened the door, and I immediately stepped inside, hugging him tight. “I’m not leaving,” I said into his coat, firmly forbidding him from making this decision for me. We built a new, challenging life, filled with physical therapy and doctor appointments, but also abundant laughter and spontaneous road trips. Two years later, he proposed with a ring made from the tiny compass keychain I gave him years prior, and we married with Wallace as the ring bearer, choosing presence over perfection.
