He Was the Right Person—At the Wrong Chapter

He Was the Right Person—At the Wrong Chapter

Written By Shah Zai

It was the kind of February that comes with grey skies, wet sidewalks, and too many unresolved thoughts. I was 24, newly moved to a city I didn’t belong to, carrying a suitcase full of dreams I hadn’t unpacked. The coffee shop where I worked part-time smelled like roasted beans and broken promises—half the customers were freelancers trying to write their novels; the other half were couples too deep in silence to bother with small talk.

Then he walked in.

Jake. With that crooked grin like he knew something you didn’t. A camera slung across his shoulder. Leather-bound notebook peeking from his coat pocket. He wasn’t flashy, but he noticed things. When he ordered, he called me by name. I hadn’t even worn my nametag that day.

"First day?" he asked, casually.

I blinked. "Third."

"Still counts," he said, handing me a $10 tip on a $3 coffee. "Good luck surviving this city."

He came back the next day. And the day after. Each time, he’d leave behind a napkin with a small doodle or a line of poetry. One said, “Even the moon gets lonely when the sun forgets to say goodbye.” I didn’t know if he meant it for me, but I started to collect them anyway.

We didn’t fall in love instantly. That would’ve been too easy.

I was still healing from someone who made love feel like a transaction. Who measured affection in apologies and made me believe my silence was safer than my truth.

Jake was patient. Never asked for explanations, but left space for them if I ever felt ready. We’d walk for hours after my shifts—he’d take pictures of neon signs and alley murals while I told him stories I hadn't told anyone in years.

I asked him once why he kept photographing things that were fading.

“Because,” he said, adjusting the lens, “they’re real. Honest. They don’t pretend to be anything else.”

That night, under the dull glow of a streetlamp, he kissed me for the first time.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t flinch.

We weren’t perfect. I had my walls; he had his ghosts. But we tried.

He’d make late-night playlists and send them with captions like “for when the world feels too loud.”
I’d write him letters I never gave, because part of me was still afraid he’d leave.

He told me once, “If I ever hurt you, it won’t be on purpose.”

He didn’t lie. But life… life didn’t care about purpose.

The unraveling came slowly, like winter fading into spring—you don’t notice it until the warmth feels unfamiliar. His visits to the café became less frequent. His notebook stayed shut. I found myself re-reading old napkin notes like scriptures from a fading religion.

I asked, “Is something wrong?”

He smiled, too quickly. “No, just busy. Work’s chaotic.”

But chaos had never stopped him before.

The truth came three weeks later.
He got an offer. Berlin. A year-long artist residency.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said, sitting across from me, hands clenched like a child waiting to be scolded.

“I would’ve been happy for you,” I whispered.

“I still want us,” he said. “We can try long-distance. Video calls. Letters. I’ll come back—”

But we both knew.

You don’t pause a chapter hoping the story will resume the same.

He left in April. I stood at the airport gate, holding a sketch he’d made of me. I told him I loved him. Not so he’d stay—but so he’d know.

He kissed my forehead and said, “Wrong timing, right person.”

And then he was gone.

People say closure comes with time.
That you forget the details, that the ache dulls.
But that’s not always true.

It’s been three years.

I’ve moved on. Different job. Different city. I’ve dated since. Some were kind. Some were temporary. None were him.

And sometimes, when it rains, I pull out that old notebook I eventually asked for.
Inside are napkin notes, sketches, a plane ticket stub.
And one last entry, in his handwriting:

“You were the first place that felt like home. I just wasn’t ready to unpack.”

I don’t regret loving him.
He didn’t promise forever. He promised presence.
And sometimes, that’s braver.

He was the right person.
Just… at the wrong chapter.

But what a chapter it was.