Six hours.
We talked until the competition hall emptied and people started stacking chairs around us.
We moved somewhere quieter, then kept talking there too.
He told me stories about training, competitions, injuries, his complicated family, and people who had underestimated him.
I told him about my family, the things I wanted from life, and the mistakes I was convinced I would never make again.
He listened carefully.
That was what surprised me.
Thomas had the confidence of someone who could easily dominate a conversation, but he didn’t.
When I spoke, he looked directly at me.
He asked questions. He remembered little things I mentioned an hour earlier.
And I realized there was something between us.
Chemistry.
The kind you don’t forget.
I remember going home that night, unable to sleep.
I kept replaying parts of our conversation.
His laugh.
The way he leaned forward whenever I said something serious.
The small pause before he answered difficult questions.
I told myself not to be foolish.
I was 29, not 19.
Still, I wanted to see him again.
For the next few weeks, Thomas became part of my days with surprising ease.
Even when we weren’t together, I expected to hear from him. I started collecting little things to tell him later.
