An Afternoon in Lausanne

It was death that gave me the courage.

In the space of two years, I lost my uncle, my stepfather, an old friend I shared an office with in Barcelona, my micromanaging Australian boss—also, oddly, a friend—and others who barely had time to take their coats off in my life before they were gone. It was a time of attrition. One by one, they left, and I stayed. Staying became its own burden.

And then came the news: she had Multiple Sclerosis. A woman I hadn’t spoken to properly in thirty years. A woman I loved once, and perhaps, in some long uncollapsed part of my heart, had never quite stopped loving.

We had known each other in our youth. A short, intense spell. One of those early attachments that imprints itself like a tattoo you forget until you catch it in a mirror. I ended it, all those years ago. For reasons I probably justified at the time. But she never really left me. And I never thought I’d speak to her again.

Until I did.

I reached out—not dramatically, but fully. I told her she had stayed with me. That I still carried something for her. That this wasn’t a plea or a seduction. I didn’t want anything from her. I just wanted her to know.

She responded with grace. Blunt, but warm: she wasn’t interested in an affair. She had two teenage children, a loving husband, a life. But she was touched. We began to share messages. Nothing inappropriate. Recommendations—films, music. And yet they all seemed charged. She told me to watch Past Lives, to listen to LoveHer by Romy. To watch One Day on Netflix. Signals? Maybe. Probably not. Just coincidence. But it didn't stop my mind from dancing.

I booked a flight to Lausanne.

Just an afternoon. She agreed. We would meet, share air, be human in each other’s presence again. When I saw her, I felt that swooping, nauseous lift that only arrives when reality collides with long-harboured feeling. She looked like herself. Older, yes. But so unmistakably her that I almost laughed from the shock of it.

We talked about her family, her health, her life. I told her everything I could remember about our time together. The tiny details. I think it mattered. I think she was glad I remembered. We had lunch. We went to an exhibition of contemporary art. It hardly mattered what we did. We could have sat on a park bench or stood in the rain. I just wanted to be there.

When it was time to go, I kissed her on the cheek. Nothing more. Though my body screamed for more. I could have held her for hours. But I didn’t. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that love, in its purest form, can survive thirty years and still not demand anything. It can just exist. Like a memory preserved in amber, clear and glowing.

I left feeling lighter. Not because anything had changed, but because I had acted. I had named the thing. I had turned and faced it and let it breathe.

Somewhere between the grief and the years and the ruined certainty of youth, I had been waiting to meet her again. And I had. For an afternoon. In Lausanne