I still remember every detail of your face that round softness, the slightly frizzy, thinning hair you never liked and kept trimming, your narrow dark eyes that turned light brown under the sun, your cheeks whose warmth I could feel against my lips, your small straight nose, and those full lips that grew even more beautiful when you smiled… though I loved them just as much when they trembled with a quiet ache.
I remember every inch of your body, your form carved like a sculpture I could never tire of. Your muscles, strong and graceful, always pulled me closer. I loved staying wrapped in your arms for hours, feeling your warmth, your energy sinking into my bones. I miss even the color of your skin—that sun-kissed tone that caught my attention the very first time you looked at me.
I had been searching for you in my dreams long before I found you in reality. Though, to be fair, it was your playful glance that found me first. It always felt like you were destined to step into my life. I never told you this, but I had heard your name before I ever saw you. A friend of mine, your coworker, once came to visit me and casually mentioned, “A new trainer joined today.” I asked where he was from. She said, “He’s mixed—three different countries.” And my heart dropped. People born from two worlds always fascinated me—maybe that’s why I was drawn to your skin, your tone, your warmth.
She even pointed you out to me the next day at work; you were standing with your back turned, but something about you already felt magnetic. And when your eyes finally met mine, your gaze unraveled me. Yesterday someone looked at me the same way— trying to tease me with his eyes. But nothing moved inside me. I just gave him a cold smile, and again I thought of you. You are everywhere. You stay with me in places I don’t expect.
Sometimes I wonder if your warmth and coldness were born from the two countries inside you— one winter, one summer. Maybe that’s why you began with heat and ended with frost, and I tried so hard to warm what was freezing. If only hearts could be kissed back to life. Maybe yours needed that, the same way your smile once changed the shape of mine.
And maybe because I come from a warm land, my heart never learned how to freeze. Don’t think I’m accusing you—sometimes a little imagination and humor softens my writing; otherwise everything I write tastes too bitter.
You changed the shape of my heart, just like that famous song everyone knows. But this shape isn’t who I truly am. I learned your coldness— not toward you, but toward anyone else who tries to offer me attention. My heart learned fear—your kind of fear. Not fear of love, but fear of losing it. Fear of risking again what almost broke me.
I was always brave with you. I was the one who kissed you first. You were startled, your breath catching for a moment, and I still remember what you told me after— a sentence I keep tucked safely inside me.
But I don’t think I’ll ever have that kind of courage with someone else again. Something inside me stops me every time. My nervous system protects me now—my heart, my soul. Maybe it misses you too, because you feel familiar in a way no one else does. Or maybe it’s telling me I’ve risked enough for one dream.
Because that’s what you were— my dream. And I wasn’t ready to let go of a dream I had finally found. But dreams are fragile; they don’t always stay. Still, life without dreams loses its flavor, and you were one of the sweet flavors of my life— even if the ending burned a little. You were like a lemon: sharp, tangy, sometimes bitter, but somehow full of hidden sugar.
I tell you all this to say: what you left behind in me is not the true shape of my heart. What I miss most is the friendship we had— the way we talked, the English words and idioms you taught me, the playful teasing. Yes, I miss the love we shared, but I lost more than a friend when I lost a piece of you. Losing you meant losing more than I ever expected. And deep inside, I believe you feel that too. Because even now you remind me of the value of our friendship.
Why did it have to end so bitterly? Was it another trick of the universe? If so, I wish the story had never ended.
So I’ll end this letter with the expression you taught me— the one that always makes me smile:
And I think I am cooked, my favorite avoidant stranger.
Ashley the name you gave me
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