I wasn’t thinking of her.
Not consciously.
Not in the way I used to, when the air itself felt like a letter she’d never opened.
I was just… eating chocolate.
It was ordinary at first. A familiar indulgence at the end of an ordinary day.
But it melted differently this time, slow and sensual.
And in that instant, she returned to me.
Not in body.
But in memory.
Like the ghost of a scent you can’t name but would follow anywhere.
It was a tidal wave in disguise.
The first crack of sweetness against my teeth was the first time I saw her laugh.
The soft bitterness underneath was the way she pulled away when she didn’t know how to stay.
Every note, every texture, was an archive of us, a sensory file I hadn’t meant to open.
But love is funny like that.
It doesn’t always announce itself.
Sometimes it whispers.
Through a song you haven’t heard in years.
Through a breeze that smells like the summer she left.
Through a taste that tells your tongue something your heart was trying to forget.
Love doesn’t always leave.
Sometimes it just waits.
Quiet.
Patient.
Buried under deadlines and distractions and the lies we tell ourselves to move on.
And when it decides to tap your shoulder, through chocolate, of all things, there’s no resisting it. Only remembering.
She’s not mine.
Hasn’t been for a long time.
But I’d be lying if I said she’s gone.
I don’t know what kind of spell she cast.
Only that it worked.
And maybe—
Maybe it still does.