We met the night before, at a friend’s place, in a city that wasn’t mine. We talked and laughed until it felt like we had known each other for much longer than a few hours.

The next day, we were thrown into the madness of Notting Hill Carnival. Music poured out of every street corner, bodies moved like waves, colors blurred into one another. Carnival isn’t just a party, it’s history, a statement of pride and resilience by the Caribbean community in London. It began as an act of defiance, a way of saying: we are here, and we belong.

Amid the chaos, you reached for my hand so we wouldn’t lose the group. Even when we caught up with them again, you didn’t let go. You asked if it was okay. And it was. It felt warm, grounding, not sleazy, just right.

Later, when the crowd swallowed us whole and it was only us again, you said something so simple it disarmed me: “Last night, when you walked in, I thought to myself, what a beautiful woman, there was something about you.” And then, between the basslines and the shouting crowds, we kissed. I know it’s such a cheesy line to say, and I should know from watching too many romantic films that this always works, and it did.

For the rest of my days in London, we found ways to see each other. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. On my last night, you booked us into a tiny event with live music. We sat on the floor, listening to strangers sing their hearts out, and I felt happy, flowy, warm. We walked the streets after, still holding hands, and I spoke more than I ever thought I could, while you quietly listened. You did not have many options, the few times you talked, I interrupted. Thank you for calling me out on it though. I needed that!

There’s something about holding hands that makes me feel invincible, like I am seen and protected. That night, you kissed me shyly, as if the weight of time was pressing on us both. At dinner, you teased me about food, promising you’d make me a foodie one day. And when the time came, you checked my train route, walked me there, and we hugged like we never wanted to let go.

I didn’t want to ask if this was a beginning or an ending, but I did. You were honest: the seven years between us felt like a lot. You needed time.

And I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t wish I was younger. Because honesty is rare. Because what we shared was real. Because some encounters don’t need labels.

Maybe you’ll fade into the blur of someone I once knew. Maybe you won’t. Either way, I am grateful. Because for a few days in London, amid music and laughter and strangers’ songs, I felt something warm and true.

I carry that with me now. Not as a question mark, not as a regret, but as a reminder: sometimes the right connection comes, even briefly, to show you the softness you deserve. And that’s what I’ll keep.

I am also keeping the jeans shorts, I owe them all this magic 🙂