A love letter never written or sent

Author's note: I wrote this piece in late September of 2013, while sitting on a dock in Gotland, a Swedish island in the Baltic Sea. The content of this essay, a true story, took place in March of 2013 as I was flying back from vacationing with my mother in Ireland. I transferred this essay from my handwritten journal to a Word document in November, the most depressing time to live in Sweden. (Tangent: I was going through my version of a "Bukowski" phase, where I drank several glasses of wine nightly and, regrettably, smoked cigarettes out my window while writing by candlelight). I recently found this piece on my computer, and reading about my attraction to a near stranger gave me hope for my future and my ability to love again. 

--

I boarded a plane to Stockholm on a cold, yet sunny March afternoon. It had been snowing in Dublin for the duration of my trip, a rare and isolated event, apparently, and I was in no rush to head further north. All that was waiting for me this Easter weekend in Sweden were two cats and several trips to my office to catch up on work. I felt like Ireland, the enchanting island of my forefathers before me, was where I should be. Reluctantly, I got on the plane.

All the way in the back row. Perfect, I thought. I have to wait for all these bastards to get off when we land so I can barely make my connection in Copenhagen. I settled in my window seat, flipping through the pages of the in-flight magazine, my eyes glazing over each glossy page about some vacation spot I can’t afford with disinterest. Then, I saw you.

You sat in the middle seat next to me, storing your suit jacket in the overhead compartment before checking some messages on your phone. You smiled at me when you buckled your seatbelt, your kind eyes glancing back at your phone before the flight attendant kindly asked you to turn it off. I wanted to talk to you then, but I worried you that you wanted to be left alone. The plane ascended, and I watched the ground below as we flew up into the clouds, high above the Irish countryside below. I could feel your brown eyes on the back of my head, and I wondered if you were watching me or out the window, looking at the misty vapor in the sky.

When we finally got our drinks (coffee for me, you wanted black tea) you spoke:

“So, do you travel often?” you said. Your Irish accent made this hackneyed phrase seem less clichéd. Charming, even.

“Not as often as I’d like,” I responded.

You talked about your Finnish friends in Helsinki you were going to visit, with their sauna and wine cellar. I told you about how I ended up moving to Sweden from the states and how I wanted to live in California some day. The more we talked, I got lost in my fantasy, imagining you getting off a plane in the Stockholm airport while I scanned the arrivals board for your flight. I imagined us taking a drive through the rolling Irish countryside. I imagined you and me in the depths of my sheets, deep in a world where only you and I exist.

I laughed at something you said, and you smiled at me with your whole being. It wasn’t until I felt the wheels hit the runway that I realized our time together was dwindling short. We checked the departures board. My flight was leaving soon, but yours was already boarding. We raced through the airport, through a busy customs patrol, talking about our favorite YouTube videos as we neared our neighboring gates.

You stopped at my gate and embraced me warmly. “If you’re ever in Sweden…” I said, hoping that you’d finish the end of my sentence.

“Definitely,” you replied softly, tacitly understanding my thoughts. The moment dissipated, and you vanished out of sight, to the next gate, to board your flight.

I wish, in that moment, that I would have changed my personality and erased my hesitation. I would have scribbled my phone number on a receipt and rushed to your gate. I would have tapped you on the shoulder in the nick of time and told you that I wanted to see you again. I would have remembered your last name, instead of trying to Google you for days later. I would have told you how I felt about you someday, and you would have held me closely while we lay together at night. I would have memorized the contours of your face, the curves of your lips, the ridges of your chest, the touch of your hand as it fit like a puzzle piece in mine. I would have invited you into my world, my private space that few others can understand.

But instead, I let you go, leaving our imagined romance to fate. I let you go, and I don’t know why.