A Letter to the One

The chair under the canvas awning of the little taverna was always mine, reserved by habit or by hope. I brought books I never finished and letters I never sent, watching the island life swirl and stall. Today, Nisyros shone in that syrupy Greek light, the kind that makes stone shimmer and even the old bicycles look romantic. A breeze stirred the napkin on my table, teasing at the promise of a new beginning.

I am what the world calls a hopeless romantic, though I prefer to think of it as endlessly hopeful. I collect love quotes the way the sea collects shells. I record them in a Moleskine journal, always with a date, a location, and some wistful, unnecessary flourish. My friends tease me; I cried at a Kleenex commercial, misted up at the airport, and still, after all these years, waiting for “the one” to recognize me across the rim of a ceramic coffee cup.

It has been three weeks and six days since I arrived. Each morning, I claim a seat in the corner by the worn blue table, so close to the sign that sometimes the breeze carries the scent of fresh calamari and yesterday’s heartbreak. Each morning, I half expect to read my own name, scrawled in chalk, waiting among the grilled octopus and risotto.

Locals come and go; old men weaving stories with their hands, tourists in hats, cats who own the lane. The young fisherman tried flirting for a week, but lost patience when I started quoting Rumi. Even so, I wait. Love stories often begin with a wait, I reason, and the ones that last endure the longest waits of all.

One afternoon, the usual hush was broken by a flurry of wheels and laughter. A couple, glowing with the smug brightness of new love, parked their rental scooter right next to my table. She giggled as he helped her dismount, their hands lingering, their smiles fearless in the sunlight. They ordered saganaki and shared it with forks tangled like lovers in a summer storm.

I felt, as I always do in such moments, that bittersweet ache: yearning wrapped in the comfort of possibility. I scribbled a quote in my journal: “Love arrives exactly when it’s meant to, not a moment before or after.” I underlined it twice.

Then, it happened. The couple, rising to leave, turned—and the woman, face flushed, looked at me with sudden recognition. My heart skipped. “Excuse me,” she said in English, “are you the writer? The one who leaves anonymous letters at cafés?”

Speechless, I nodded. She beamed. “You wrote me a letter. In Kos, last summer. About chasing love, about finding the right café. I came here because of you. And” she gestured to her partner, “so did he. We both got your letter. We met while searching the island for you.”

The world spun a little. The couples I’d always envied, here because of me? I felt tears prick, as always. The couple departed, hands entwined, hearts unknowingly stitched by my words.

And so, on a sun-drenched afternoon in Nisyros, the hopeless romantic learned that sometimes love’s greatest story is the one written for others. Maybe “the one” will one day find me, too. Or perhaps, the real romance lies in believing so.