The Tale of a Silent Fire “To be continued…”

I have always believed that being in love, in some way, destroys you as a feminine being.

That’s why I’ve always been wary of love maybe even afraid of it. Maybe I never wanted to be loved, or

to love. I always took love for granted, because love hurts. Love hurts more than anything else.

But what happens when your heart beats for someone who belongs to someone else?

Feelings begin to bloom slowly, and only when you find yourself in a butterfly-like transformation… after just a week,

you die from the beauty of those emotions. I am just a young woman, in my early twenties, who suddenly

finds herself thinking about a man around forty. I’ve never been attracted to boys my age; I always

find myself drawn to older men. Maybe it stems from the lack of love from my father.

But older men offer a kind of feeling that younger boys simply cannot. They make you feel special, beautiful;

they warm your soul with the most tender words. The way they look at you, the way they speak with such care, with that

classic gentlemanly elegance mature men have. The way they make sure you’re comfortable in every detail.

They notice things even the smallest, most insignificant ones pointing them out in ways that surprise you, flooding

you with attention you never asked for. Girls who have never been loved the way they wished to be, easily fall prey

to this kind of affection. It’s a type of love that feels warmer, more familiar to your soul, a feeling your heart

accepts without fear or hesitation. The care they show in everything—in a conversation, in an unintentional

gentle touch, in a silent gaze where their eyes speak for them. It was just an evening when I went for

a coffee at the casino where my mother played. We had agreed to meet there since she didn’t have a phone.

I sat behind the main entrance, at the bar. My plan was simple: wait for my mother, then

go to a bar afterward to have a drink, just to get used to the city I had just moved to.

I wore classic trousers, a turtleneck, a leather jacket, and boots with a small heel—boots that make that distinct

sound as you walk, the kind that makes you feel feminine and confident.

As I saw the spot where I intended to sit, right beside my table were two men.

With one of them, I exchanged a millisecond eye contact. He pulled me in instantly.

The moment I saw him, he drew me in. I could tell he was older, but that never bothered me.

Age difference with a man has never been an issue for me. I sat at my table and ordered my usual: coffee and

water. As a writer, I took out my notebook and began to write. From time to time, I would glance at the table beside

me… and I would see the stranger again. I felt his gaze on me. I felt his energy touching mine from a distance of no

more than two or three meters. When I left, there was a spark an eye contact that lingered in the air.

I didn’t know if I would ever see him again, but something inside me wished to.

A few days passed, and I went again to sit in the same place, until the waiter spoke to me: —

"Are you a writer? I always see you writing,"

he said. I laughed, and in my mind, I knew the stranger must have told him to ask.

No waiter has the right to start such a conversation with a girl who hasn’t shown any sign of openness or

familiarity. —

"Yes, I’m a writer!"

I replied, smiling. —

"Your handwriting is truly beautiful. What’s your name?"

Then I was certain—he had sent him. —

"Aulona,"

I answered. The waiter kept talking for a while, and I continued writing.

Deep down, I wanted to laugh because I knew the stranger had sent him. I never would have given a waiter so

much information otherwise. Before leaving, I went to the restroom. Again, I glanced at the stranger.

When I came back, I started chatting jokingly with the bartender about the coffee, because

honestly, it was terrible. The waiter joined the conversation. —

"You have no idea how extraordinary her writing is,"

the waiter said. He was exaggerating. Then he asked for my Instagram. I knew it was on the stranger’s behalf.

So I gave it otherwise, I never would have. I never do. That evening, when I got home, I saw a comment on one of my

Instagram posts. It caught my attention instantly I sensed it was him. I replied, something I rarely do.

The next day, back at the café, I heard the stranger’s friend saying: —

"The writer has arrived."

But this time they weren’t in their usual place they were right next to my table.

I sat down, ignoring their conversation, lost in my own world. Until I heard the stranger speaking to me: —

"You write beautifully, congratulations! I even commented on your post,"

he said. That confirmed it the comment was his, and everything the waiter had done was orchestrated by him.

—

"Thank you very much, I appreciate it!"

I said. The way he said it, it felt like he was telling me:

"Look, it was me who commented."

With a confident, meaningful tone. They complimented my work, and being someone of few words, I didn’t continue

the conversation. Slowly, a meteor began falling from my thoughts into my heart.

Until the stranger wrote to me. His Instagram profile was fake, which made me doubt.

He messaged me at the exact moment we were near each other, I know he wanted to see my reaction, my expression.

I ignored it for the moment. When he left, I replied: —

"Good evening, may I ask you a question?"

he had written. —

"Good evening, yes, tell me!"

I replied, my heart beating fast. —

"Are you afraid to meet people who have a soft spot for you and want to get to know you?"

—

"Is that the impression I gave you? That I’m scared?"