At 78 years old, I found myself caught by surprise on what seemed like just another quiet afternoon. I was relaxing at home when the doorbell gave a sudden ring. Wondering who it might be, as I wasn’t expecting anyone, I made my way to the door.

The moment I opened it, my heart nearly skipped a beat — there stood Nathan, the man who was my first love and who had left such a mark on my heart decades ago.

Half a century passed since he vanished without any explanation, yet here he was, looking as if those years hadn’t kept us apart.

“I want to explain everything. Will you let me in?” Nathan said directly, his face marked by the years with wrinkles and sunspots, lacking the youthful stance of long ago, but still undeniably Nathan.

“Fine. Come in,” I muttered after a moment, leading him inside while trying to steady my emotions.

“How have you been all these years?” he asked, taking a seat.

“I want real answers this time, Nathan. I’ve not forgotten how you avoided the truth back then. You either explain now or leave,” I replied, arms crossed, holding onto the resolve that had seen me through the years.

“This isn’t easy. My parents arranged a marriage for me at 20 with someone from an influential family. But it was never what I wanted,” Nathan confessed, sounding burdened by the memories. “I loved only you, though I knew they would never approve.”

His unexpected revelation left me stunned into silence as he continued, “I spent time with her, Kiara, as expected. She loved to travel and demanded much of my time, but I always returned to our moments together.”

“Until you stopped coming back altogether. I waited, Nathan. A whole year,” I interjected, the hurt from his departure still raw. “And you were with someone else all along!”

“It wasn’t romantic. I assure you. Holding her hand or any such gesture never happened,” Nathan retorted earnestly. “She might have alerted my parents about us if I didn’t comply, and it would’ve harmed you.”

His conviction made me pause, contemplating if he was speaking the truth.

“Why didn’t you return anytime sooner?” I queried softly.

“That year was chaos. Between my internship and Kiara beginning to plan our wedding, life got utterly tangled. Kiara’s accident complicated everything further, and I had to help her grieving parents who believed I was their son-in-law,” he explained, eyes downcast.

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a lot to process,” I said softly, remembering something he mentioned. “When did you return though? I never saw you.”

“I did come back, to your house. But seeing you with another man, I couldn’t bring myself to approach. I simply watched and figured you moved on,” Nathan recounted.

“That was Charles, my late husband,” I clarified, the sorrow of his loss briefly clouding our reunion.

“I offer my condolences,” Nathan managed to say.

“What now?” I pondered out loud, wondering where this visit would lead us.

“I wanted us to finally talk, maybe find a way back to friendship at least,” Nathan proposed tentatively.

“How did you manage to find me after all this time?”

“In my 30s, I moved here and never left. Over the years, I saw your parents in the neighborhood, and once they passed and the apartment remained unsold, I held onto the hope that you’d return someday,” Nathan disclosed, his eyes gleaming with something akin to hope.

The weight of his words sank in. Nathan had never married or started a family. For more than 20 years, he had quietly waited for my arrival. “Would you care for a sandwich, Nathan?” I offered, shifting the tone from the hefty past to the present moment.

Our journey continued from there. Nathan started visiting regularly, and we nurtured a companionship that slowly rekindled into something more. Despite the decades apart, our affection reignited effortlessly, like an old flame given new life.