Love at First Sight

had never believed in love at first sight.

To me, love was a slow-burning fire, built over time and familiarity. I’d scoffed at rom-coms, rolled my eyes at sappy novels. Love, I thought, was forged through trials, not lightning strikes. But everything I knew shattered the moment I saw her.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon in late October. I was running late to my best friend’s gallery opening downtown, rushing across puddled sidewalks and dodging umbrellas. The gallery was tucked between a forgotten bookstore and an abandoned laundromat—one of those hidden gems only true artists knew existed.

I stepped inside, shaking off the cold, when I caught sight of her.

She wasn’t even looking at me. She stood alone in front of a painting—one of those abstract swirls of color and chaos that usually made no sense to me. But the way she stood there, head tilted slightly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her oversized coat—it was as if she and the painting shared a secret.

Something in my chest shifted.

She turned, and for a moment—just a moment—our eyes locked. Green. Bright, curious, alive. Her lips curled into the faintest smile, as if she recognized me from a dream we hadn’t had yet. I felt like I’d walked straight into a song, one I’d never heard but somehow knew by heart.

I should’ve said something. I should’ve walked right up and introduced myself. But I froze. She moved on, disappearing into a crowd of half-drunk art lovers and the clinking of cheap wine glasses. I lost her.

I spent the next thirty minutes pretending to admire paintings while scanning the room for her. But she was gone.

Disappointed, I stepped outside again, the rain now gentle, as if the sky, too, had softened. I stood under the awning, trying to shake off the strange ache in my chest. That’s when I heard the voice.

“You didn’t like the paintings, did you?”

I turned, and there she was—coat zipped up, hair damp, a knowing smirk on her lips.

I laughed, caught off guard. “They weren’t exactly... my thing.”

She grinned. “Same. I just come for the free wine and weird conversations.”

“Did we have one yet?”

“Not yet,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Ava.”

I took it, still stunned. “Liam.”

We walked. No destination, just streetlights and soggy sidewalks. We talked about everything—books we hadn’t read, places we hadn’t visited, childhood dreams that never quite died. She told me she wanted to open a plant shop, even though she couldn’t keep a cactus alive. I told her I used to write poetry but was too afraid to share it.

It didn’t feel like we’d just met. It felt like we were continuing a conversation that had begun long before we were born.

Weeks passed. Then months. And the more I got to know her, the more surreal that first moment felt—like the universe had paused just long enough for our paths to cross. And when I finally kissed her, under the same gallery awning where we’d re-met, the world stilled again. Just like the first time.

People still ask me if I believe in love at first sight. I smile every time. Not because I believe in fairy tales, but because I lived one. And maybe it wasn't magic in the traditional sense. Maybe it was timing. Maybe fate. Or maybe just two people seeing something in each other that the world had hidden until then.

But I know this much:

The moment I saw her, something in me whispered, There you are.

And I’ve been listening ever since.

In a world of noise and chance, love found its voice in a glance—and never stopped speaking since.

Thanks for reading.