Lost in Lisbon, Found in You

Lost in Lisbon, Found in You

Written by Noor Khan

I never planned to fall in love in Lisbon. In fact, I hadn’t planned anything at all.

After a draining breakup and a career shift that left me feeling empty, I booked a last-minute flight to Portugal. No itinerary. No expectations. Just me, my backpack, and a hope that distance could somehow heal what routine had broken.

Lisbon greeted me with the smell of ocean salt, pastel de nata, and a breeze that didn’t ask questions. The city was alive—trams screeched through narrow lanes, and golden light bathed the tiled buildings like a dream. It was freedom. It was silence. It was exactly what I needed.

My hostel was nestled in the Alfama district, one of the oldest and most charming parts of the city. That’s where I met him.

Adrian.

British. Photographer. A quiet kind of handsome. He was sitting on the rooftop terrace sketching the cityscape, his camera resting beside him. We exchanged a few casual words about the view. I told him I was traveling alone for the first time. He smiled and said, “Sometimes it’s the best way to find yourself.”

We didn't talk long. I didn’t think anything of it—just another hostel guest, just another sunset.

But the next morning, I found him again—at a tiny café around the corner from the hostel. He was editing photos on his laptop. We exchanged smiles, and this time, he invited me to join him.

We talked for hours.

About everything and nothing. He had quit his corporate job in London two years ago to travel full-time and capture stories through his lens. I told him about my writing, how I’d stopped believing in my words. He told me to stop running and start writing again. “Your story matters,” he said, not like a flirt, but like a believer.

We ended up spending the whole week together.

Day trips to Sintra’s castles, coffee breaks at Praça do Comércio, long walks near the Tagus River. Every corner of Lisbon started to carry the sound of his laughter, his voice, his presence. We laughed, we argued about music and books, and once, we danced to Fado music in a random bar—completely out of rhythm, completely free.

There was no grand confession. No candlelit dinner or cheesy pickup lines. Just moments—simple, honest, and real.

On the last day, we climbed to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte, a hilltop viewpoint that overlooked the entire city. The sun was setting, casting orange and pink over the terracotta rooftops.

“I don’t want this to end,” I said, not even looking at him.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he replied, “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”

I turned to him, confused.

“I don’t mean moving in or big declarations,” he said. “But I don’t want to walk away from you like this was just another travel moment. I want to see where this goes. Wherever it goes.”

My heart twisted.

Was I brave enough to let something real begin again?

I flew back to Pakistan a few days later, but everything felt different. My journal was full again—stories, poems, feelings I had buried long ago. Adrian and I kept talking. Calls, messages, shared playlists, exchanged edits on each other’s creative work. He became more than a memory; he became part of my present.

Three months later, I flew to London.

I didn’t pack for adventure. I packed for possibility.

Closing Lines:

Love doesn’t always arrive with fanfare or fairy tales. Sometimes, it shows up as a stranger on a rooftop in Lisbon, and if you’re lucky—and brave—you might just say yes.