A story that speaks to the contrast within me.

A couple of years ago, on my birthday night, I did something impulsive yet thrilling: I went on a date with a guy I’d never met before—not even spoken to or heard his voice. We only knew the basics about each other: what we did, where we lived, and where we were from, based on the brief information we exchanged in our introduction message. We had connected through a dating app. It was during my rebound days—I used to visit the app every now and then without any real agenda, knowing that I had nothing to offer anyone, yet thinking, “What if…?”

We exchanged numbers almost immediately, right after the intro, skipping the usual detailed talk, which didn’t quite fit my regular mold. He dropped his number and invited me for a drink at the Atmosphere Lounge in the towering skyscraper where he lived. Woohoo! That’s one hell of a fancy place! I thought to myself. I had no idea what to expect or how to respond—new to the place, new to the quick invite, and everything around me felt unfamiliar. I’d never dared to go on a date with someone in a new country on the very first day of connecting. Dude… that was a seriously fast invite.

I casually brushed off his offer, saying, “Sure, some other time.” He was pretty mature and cool, responding calmly. He simply asked me to text him from my number to keep in touch. I did, and that was that.

In our brief conversation, we discovered that we were both very new to the city—me still finding my feet, and him just settling in.

Over the months, he often reached out, always asking if I was free to meet up for that drink at the same place where he first invited me. We never developed much of a conversation or any real connection—it was just his repeated invitation to catch up. That was it. Every time, I’d tell him I was only free on weekends (though it was an excuse—I could have made time if I wanted to), but when he did reach out on weekends, it would be late at night, or I simply didn’t feel like catching up. I gave it the least importance.

For me, it’s all about developing a meaningful conversation first (if not an instant spark) and slowly building things brick by brick. I wouldn’t rush into anything without that connection or thrill, especially when it comes to meeting someone new. I just wouldn’t feel comfortable with that.

On weekend nights, I used to spend my time running with my friend in the park, chit-chatting and gushing over our funny, flirty stories. During our late-night jogs, I’d tell him about the luxury invitations I kept getting. He’d tease me for turning them down, choosing to be in the park with him instead. When I mentioned that this guy often messaged me just to ask for a meet-up at the same place without ever having a real conversation, my friend would joke that the guy was probably broadcasting the same message to other new girls he’d connected with, trying his luck to see who might show up. We’d both laugh about it. My friend had this tinge of possessiveness and a caring side that kept me from seriously considering the invitation, but it was his friendship I genuinely valued and where I felt comfortable and happy.

Eventually, whenever I got a message, I started feeling the same way my friend did about those repeated invites to the same place. So, I began ignoring his messages and making excuses for why I couldn’t make it. He didn’t push, though—he was cool, yet persistent, above all that PATIENCE.

A whole year passed just like that. By then, I’d become somewhat familiar with the city—even with that towering marvel, including the view from the rooftop, which made me feel like I was just an inch away from the sky, ready to touch the twinkling stars and smile, gazing up at them so closely. The moon felt so close I could almost grab it in my hand. The entire city stretched out beneath one gaze. Though it all felt and looked like something out of sci-fi, it still made me feel like a touristy whenever I visited. The tallest, most luxurious structure in the world stood there like an anchor of wonder in the city’s skyline, and I found myself admiring it from my workplace every day, marveling at its glorious architecture that seemed to say, “Look at me,” to anyone passing by.

Okay, back to my birthday night—a night I hadn’t planned to make special in any way. A month before my birthday, he reached out again. When he messaged, I was on vacation. I casually told him I’d meet him for sure once I was back, and he admired the pictures I posted, even hearting a few of them (he was selective, only choosing a few, which caught my attention). It surprised me because he hadn’t often noticed my posts or pictures before. I kind of thought, ‘Oh, he notices me,’ though it wasn’t a big deal. I was intrigued, but I didn’t say anything. I have a thing for the art of noticing, or maybe it’s just me, but I get excited when someone notices things I don’t even consciously pay attention to.

Anyway, during my birthday week, he invited me again, and for two days straight, I made excuses, saying I was busy with work and home. But on the third day, I couldn’t immediately say no; it was the weekend, after all.

So, I typed, "I wish I could, but it’s my birthday night."

It was past 10:30 p.m. when I sent it, but to my surprise, he replied, "I guess, last year around this time, we were talking, and I remember that you mentioned you were out with friends since it was your birthday."

"Gosh! You remember! It’s been a year already," I replied.

"Yes, It's been a year, we should definitely meet then," he texted back.

He mentioned making a memory out of my birthday, and for some reason, that struck a chord with me. His messages usually weren’t anything special—never particularly eloquent or persuasive—but this time, he seemed genuinely enthusiastic. It felt different like there was more to it than just another casual invite.

"If you have no plans, give me an hour to get ready, and Pin your location I’ll book a taxi for you," he texted.

"Oh, yes... Let’s do this," I replied.

Without overthinking, I agreed. I didn’t have any plans for my birthday anymore; I’ve outgrown the phase of waiting for special calls, surprises, or throwing parties. It wasn’t loud or flooded with calls or texts like it used to be—it had been super quiet for some time; barely anyone remembered or wished.

Since I was just back from my night run I gave myself some time to freshen up while he finished a badminton game with friends.

I showered, got dressed, cut a small cake at home since there was already one waiting for me, and left after informing them that I was going out with a friend.

I arrived at the spot he mentioned and looked around before texting or calling him. There he was, smiling as he greeted me. I shook his hand, nervous inside but smiling anyway. He led me to the elevator, and I was relieved he did because I would’ve easily gotten lost otherwise. We rode up to the 122nd floor without saying much. As we walked into the lounge, he casually wished, “Happy Birthday.” I smiled and thanked him, glancing at the time—it was 12:02 a.m.

He seemed to know the staff well; everyone greeted him warmly—after all, he lived in the same tower. I was sure it was his usual weekend spot. We settled into the seat he had already booked for us, and to my surprise, the staff soon brought out a small cake with “Happy Birthday” written on it and sang for me. I was overwhelmed more than surprised. He even recorded a video as I cut the cake, singing along with the staff. It was such a thoughtful gesture from someone who was practically a stranger, and we had just met 10 minutes ago. I couldn’t believe I was celebrating my birthday in a place I hadn’t planned to be, with a person I barely knew.

As we talked through the night, he turned out to be quite the conversationalist—engaging me with thoughtfulness, even sharing some funny, fucked-up stories with a touch of poetic flair. I couldn’t help but wonder why his messages had never been fun or playful, just dry and dull. He mentioned that he used to write poetry, which caught me off guard since I only knew him as a corporate tax law attorney—not exactly someone I’d expect to express romance through words. I realized I’d misjudged him based on his lackluster messaging skills. When I expressed surprise and curiosity about him and wanted to read his poetry, he opened his notes on his phone and read a beautiful poem for me—one he’d dedicated to his ex-girlfriend during his college days. With his permission, I recorded the moment to cherish. It was romantically beautiful, the way he looked at me with that expressive glint as he read. Indeed, I had misjudged him all these days.

I hadn’t realized how time flew. Hours melted into one another as we talked, laughed, and finished our drinks with multiple refills. Eventually, dawn began to break, and it was time for me to head home. He offered to call a taxi and walk me to it—something I definitely needed since I was feeling tipsy. Of course, I accepted; he was a gentleman, and I didn’t even have to ask.

As we walked closely together, I stumbled slightly, and he caught me, holding me by the waist. I held his hand tightly—maybe to steady myself, or maybe because I liked holding him. Hand in hand, we made our way to the elevator. Inside, I leaned onto him, murmuring something incoherent in my tipsy state. Then, before I knew it, he kissed me—starting with my bare shoulder, brushing along my collarbone, softly trailing down to my cleavage, and finally lingering on my neck. It was wild, a rush of unexpected passion.

It wasn’t just the touch of his lips; there were subtle bites, leaving faint marks on my sensitive skin (hickeys or love bites, if you will). As he leaned in to kiss my lips (I was on the brink of losing control), I gently pulled back, whispering that the smell of alcohol was making me dizzy. Not really that, I wasn’t ready for this unexpectedly exploding passion.

I wasn’t offended by his wild kiss, nor did I try to encourage or discourage him. We were both a little too drunk and cozy with each other, caught up in that moment, but I’m not really sure why I didn’t encourage it. I suppose I didn’t want to risk any potential awkwardness or embarrassment. Still, I let myself get swept up in the moment of spectacular sensation.

Soon, my taxi arrived, and I said goodbye, leaving him and that moment behind. All the way home, that thrilling sensation and those intense touches on my skin lingered, making me feel so sensual, warming my body and leaving me blushing for a while.

Looking back on that night, I see a blend of spontaneity, drawn to the thrill of the unknown, yet hesitant to let go of what feels safe and familiar. Perhaps that’s all it was—a fleeting moment to savor as a beautiful memory. When I think about it now, it feels both incredible and somewhat ridiculous.

Beats me. Maybe that’s just who I am—a contradiction wrapped in desire and restraint, staggering on the edge of impulse yet never fully surrendering control. If we could recognize that life is full of moments like these—ones that shimmer, whether in the shadow of uncertainty or beneath the bright lights of possibility—it might make all the difference.

Just like my hair at this moment—wild and untamed, swept by the wind as it brushes against my skin, only to be tucked behind my ear. Yet those strands refuse to settle, partially obscuring my face as if they’re hiding the restlessness within me. My hair, much like my thoughts, may grow, shift, and curl, but beneath it all, I remain a vibrant soul—ever wandering, evolving, stumbling, yet always irresistibly drawn to the untamed unknown.

At times, I feel like I’m on the cusp of something extraordinary, but there’s also a quiet pull to stay grounded in what’s familiar. The important thing, I’ve realized, is that this back-and-forth doesn’t make me any less stable—no matter how chaotic it feels. It simply means I’m still growing, learning, and figuring things out along the way.

So, all I can do is let myself be as I am, allowing myself to find meaning in the tension between who I am and who I might yet become.