Hello there. As always… it’s been a long time.

I’m currently on my summer break, which finally gives me the chance to slow down and take some precious time on my apartment balcony to write about something — or, more precisely, that someone — who brings out the best in me. What if this time I go a little deeper into my feelings? I think it would be nice to immortalize part of my love story. Everyone has one, right? Some stories last a lifetime, others remain as fond memories, and for the unfortunate ones, as nightmares. In my case, I would describe mine as an admirable one.

I understand that many people no longer believe in love, and that is perfectly fine. Some have struggled through countless issues that relationships bring along. But I personally believe that you can’t fully live without having experienced the joy of love — the way your eyes light up when you see a particular face, the butterflies deep in your stomach when you think of that someone, or the way hanging up the phone suddenly becomes the hardest thing to do.

My story takes me back several years, to a time when Facebook was at its peak — when endless spam friend requests were part of everyday life. I call it an experience, because most of those requests came from people you had never met and never quite understood why they were so eager to reach out. Among all those accepted requests, a kind, smiley boy appeared. I was 17 at the time, and my idea of love was very different from the one I have now. I had never fallen in love before, but as a teenager, I believed anything could work.

Long story short: we chatted, we laughed, we met, we kissed — and shortly after, we broke up. Quite ephemeral. Teenage years are just like that. Lovers come and go, crushes fade as quickly as they appear, and we learn about heartbreak, betrayal, and anger. Back then, I became a heartbroken teenager, and listening to breakup songs turned into my favorite hobby.

Years went by, and I changed. My appearance evolved, my preferences matured, and my heart slowly healed. I was in my early twenties by then, convinced that love simply wasn’t meant for me — that being a young gay man was probably destined to be rough. I vividly remember looking at couples and thinking I would end up as the gay version of that obsessively lonely cat lady from The Simpsons.
Two things worked against that theory: first, I hated cats back then; second, I was far more polished than her. Good to know.

One ordinary afternoon after university, while waiting at a bus stop — ta-dah! — there he was again. Standing next to me. Smiling the same way he always had. I remember thinking, this boy never stopped being charming. I said hi and approached him. He was just as warm as on day one: a true gentleman, a bit older (I must confess), and radiating an energy that felt incredibly comforting. We took the bus together and started talking again. Exchanging numbers followed naturally, and sending another Facebook friend request became part of our story — once more.

At first, I didn’t want to fall again. But somehow, the story had already been written. I discovered a new side of myself — and of him too. When I look back at those early 2010s, I can’t help but smile at how simple yet meaningful flirting was back then: picking each other up from college, endless conversations while standing on our feet with almost no money in our pockets, or those unchangeable dates eating junk food at places like Doggis.

I learned to value things beyond money. I learned that sharing a cigarette at the square, walking along the shore, impatiently waiting to see his face again, celebrating every small achievement, taking pictures whenever we could, rediscovering places I had never noticed before, or changing his contact name on my phone to something more personal were more than enough. Slowly, I started believing that I could be loved again — that someone truly cared about me.

And just like that… I was in love again.

More than ten years have passed since the beginning of this chapter, and throughout all these years I have learned that happiness is possible. That love is real when it is shared, when respect is non-negotiable, when complicity remains at its core, when struggles are solved through communication and introspection, and when dreams and plans are built by listening to what your partner has to say.

Of course, good and bad days have been part of the journey — whether we wanted them or not. We have never aimed to be a “picture-frame couple,” pretending perfection for others to admire. First, because that would be terribly boring; and second, because I have never met a perfect couple. What we strive to be is a couple that carefully, gracefully, and thoughtfully builds a path made of sticks, stones, plants, and flowers — a path we will one day be proud of. I hope that when we look back, we will value every investment we made and regret nothing.

We all carry our own demons, don’t we? I’ve often questioned whether I am worthy — and I’ve learned that I am. Why? Because I have invested the greatest things I can give to someone: my time and my heart. And I have not done it alone — it has always been mutual.

The truth is that F is more than just the first letter of the person I love. It represents my Failures, my Feelings, and my Fears — all the things I had to face to become who I am today. But above all, it stands for our Future and the Favorite version of ourselves.

So yes — love does exist. I opened my heart to it, and it feels incredible. I truly wish that someone, somewhere, gets to feel what I feel right now. My life has never felt brighter — because this is a story built by two.

Until next time, dear readers.