Our connection felt magical, intoxicating, and undeniably real. His touch was tender, his words a balm to my otherwise uneventful existence. I gave him everything—including the parts of myself I had guarded the most. But we never spoke of labels, never clarified what we were to each other. It didn’t matter then. I believed in the unspoken promises between us, naively trusting that he would stay, that his presence was permanent.
Until he vanished.
One morning, Paolo was simply gone. No goodbye, no explanation. Only a bag stuffed with money left behind, accompanied by a cryptic note: “Keep it, you’ll be needing this soon.” Bewildered and heartbroken, my mother and I buried the bag behind our house, unsure of what to do with such an obscene amount. Every corner of the house, every trail leading to the town, felt haunted by his absence. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, but Paolo never returned.
Then came another surprise—I was pregnant.