Brave

– “When do you have vacation?” he asks, almost as if he’s planning something.

– “Funny you ask today… ten days at the end of next month,” I reply, not thinking too much about the implications of that question.

– “And what do you plan to do during those ten days?”

I smile before answering, sending him a picture of the flights I booked that same morning, headed to Menorca. I still don’t know why I did it. I hardly know anything about him: a few calls, some voice notes, endless WhatsApp messages, and a few photos on Instagram. That’s been enough to convince me to make this impulsive decision, something he’ll probably label as bravery and madness in equal parts.

He intrigues me, yes, but he also scares me. It’s not the fear of physical danger; I know perfectly well how to take care of myself in that regard. The real fear is failure, of finding myself once again in a story that only makes sense to me, of giving my all without knowing if the other person is willing to do the same. It’s the fear of opening up and discovering that once again I’m the one who gave too much, the one who continues imagining futures, creating illusions, writing chapters in a story that maybe only exists in my mind.

The scars from past disappointments throb like a warning, reminding me that not all risks are worth taking. But for some reason I don’t fully understand, I keep searching for that authentic connection. My urge to keep believing, to take risks despite the odds, remains alive, like a flame that refuses to go out. I wonder if one day that flame will extinguish, if there will come a time when I’ll settle for feeling nothing at all. But today, that flame still burns, and that’s what led me to book those flights.