The Night We Stopped Being Strangers”

I never believed in fate.

To me, life was a series of random events stitched together by choices and chance. I didn’t think people were “meant” for each other. That was the stuff of novels and daydreams.

And then I met her.

It was a rainy Friday night in Berlin. I had just missed my bus, soaked from the downpour, heart heavy from a breakup I wasn’t quite over. I ducked into the U-Bahn station, not really knowing where I was going—just needing movement, air, distraction.

The platform was nearly empty except for a girl sitting on the bench, humming to herself. Her coat was bright yellow. Ridiculously bright. Like sunshine against a city of grey.

I might not have noticed her, but she looked up at me and smiled. Not a flirtatious smile. Just… kind.

The train rolled in, and we stepped into the same car.

I sat across from her, earbuds in, pretending to scroll my phone. But I wasn’t watching anything. I was watching her.

She had this way of tucking her hair behind her ear like she’d done it a thousand times before. Her eyes were a soft brown, the color of autumn leaves. And when our eyes met, she didn’t look away.

“You look like someone who needs a better night,” she said suddenly.

I pulled out one earbud. “Is it that obvious?”

She laughed. “Only because I’ve had those nights too.”

We talked. Just like that. About music. About heartbreak. About how she’d once quit her job to travel and got lost in Lisbon for two weeks with nothing but a backpack and broken Portuguese.

Her name was Lara. She had a tattoo of a paper airplane on her wrist. Said it reminded her to keep moving.

One station became two, then ten. We were both supposed to get off an hour ago.

“I’m starving,” she said, glancing at the empty car. “Want to get noodles?”

I should’ve said no. I didn’t know this girl. But I did. Because somehow, she felt familiar. Like a memory I hadn’t made yet.

We sat at a small late-night place by the canal, slurping spicy noodles and sharing stories. She told me about her mother, who sent her postcards even though they lived in the same city. I told her about my fear of becoming like my father—quiet, distant, always running from emotions.

She didn’t judge. She listened like she really wanted to understand.

By the time we stepped out, the rain had stopped. The streets were slick with reflection, everything glowing under the amber streetlights.

She walked me back to my tram stop. Neither of us said what we were thinking: that we didn’t want the night to end.

“So… strangers or something else now?” she asked, half-smiling.

“Something else,” I said. “Definitely something else.”

She kissed me. Right there under the streetlight. Not a desperate kiss. Just soft. Certain.

It felt like a beginning.


---

Over the weeks, we became something more. Lazy Sundays in bed. Grocery shopping like old couples. Notes on mirrors. Late-night calls just to say, “I miss you.”

She made me believe in softness again. In connection. In love that didn’t have to be chaotic to be real.

But love, I learned, doesn’t always mean forever.

She got the job offer she’d been dreaming of—in Tokyo. A two-year design residency she’d applied for before we even met.

I wanted to ask her to stay. She didn’t ask me to come.

We cried. We laughed. We promised to write.

The night before her flight, we went back to the station where it started. Same bench. Same train line. Different hearts.

“I hate timing,” I said.

She nodded. “But I love that we had this.”

She handed me a postcard. On the front was a paper airplane, just like her tattoo. On the back, in her slanted handwriting:

“Some people are chapters. Some are entire stories. You were both.”

I watched her walk away, bright yellow coat vanishing into the crowd.

I didn’t chase her. Because some loves are meant to be remembered, not held onto.


---

One year later, I got a postcard.

It was from Tokyo.

On it, a sketch of a train car. Two people facing each other. Smiling.

No words. Just a paper airplane drawn in the corner.

I smiled.

I still don’t know if fate is real. But I know this: Sometimes, one night is enough to change everything.

And sometimes… we stop being strangers just long enough to fall in love.