The hug at dusk

Some moments don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to.

We’d only just met, and yet the quiet flowed easily between us. Her English was better than she believed, and my patience was steadier than she expected. We laughed—genuinely, warmly—despite both of us carrying the polite hesitations that come with age, experience, and the bruises of being careful.

At one point, she apologised. Said she wasn’t ready to be anyone’s wife. I wasn’t asking. But I listened, because that’s what you do when someone speaks from a place of gentle self-protection.

Later, I walked her to her motorbike. I stayed a respectful distance, letting her armour up—helmet, gloves, mask—the quiet ritual of return.

Then, without a word, she stepped around the bike and gave me a hug.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just real. A soft, unguarded offering of connection.

The kind of hug that doesn’t ask for anything more.

But it also doesn’t say goodbye.