From November 1 to November 5, we stayed together in Legian, and life slowed into a gentler rhythm.
Even on mornings when I had to work, I rushed through my responsibilities just to return to him. Nothing else felt as important. We didn't plan much—because we didn't need to. Our days were shaped by quiet breakfasts, aimless walks, teasing laughter, and the simple comfort of proximity. Waking up beside him felt natural, like something my body had always known how to do.
Those days taught me something essential: love doesn't always need excitement. Sometimes, it only needs presence.
Our second month together began in Lombok—our first real trip as a couple, carefully planned by him. The island welcomed us with calm beaches, golden sunsets, and a sense of privacy that felt almost sacred. We explored without rushing, talked without distraction, and held each other as if time itself had softened.
One evening, standing on a hill as the sun disappeared into the horizon, I felt it clearly—this wasn't just a holiday. This was a memory I would carry forever.
Gili Air came next, quieter than anywhere we had been. No cars. No urgency. Just sand, sea, and slow footsteps. We walked everywhere hand in hand. Some days the heat overwhelmed me, and I grew irritable, but he never pulled away. He asked if I was okay. He stayed patient. He reminded me, gently, that love doesn't disappear when comfort fades.
In our small villa—with its private pool and quiet nights—love softened. It became playful. Gentle. Safe. It learned how to breathe.
Returning to Bali felt heavier than arriving. I already knew what was coming.
On his last day, I watched him pack in silence, memorizing every movement, every pause. At the airport, I tried to be strong, but love has a way of exposing every fragile place. When he walked toward immigration, crying openly, my heart broke in ways I didn't know were possible.
Still, we reminded each other: this was not the end.
Two weeks after his return to France, something shifted. Messages grew shorter. Calls became less frequent. My heart—already tender from loss—filled the silence with fear. Our first argument arrived quietly, but it left a deep mark. Not because of anger, but because love had revealed how deeply we mattered to each other.
We spoke honestly. We cried. We gave each other space.
And I learned something else: love is not proven by perfection, but by the courage to stay when things become uncomfortable.
I don't know how our story will end. Love never comes with guarantees, no matter how strongly we believe in it. But I know this—the universe brought us together when my heart was closed. It tested us with distance, reunited us with joy, and challenged us with honesty.
Each phase asked something different of us: patience, courage, vulnerability, trust.
This story is not about perfection.It is about choosing—choosing to stay open, choosing to grow, choosing love even when fear whispers louder.
If love is a journey, then this is only one part of the path.
And for as long as the universe allows, I choose him—again and again.