About 2 months into dating, he randomly showed up at my house.
Unfortunately, I was stuck on the toilet with a UTI. I embarrassingly explained this to him through the bathroom door and he says, “No problem, hold on a minute.” Then he disappeared.
Ten minutes later, I heard the door open again, then a knock on the bathroom door.
“I left something for you. Don’t worry, I’ll wait out here.”
When I finally waddled out—red-faced, hunched, in an oversized hoodie—there was a brown paper bag on my kitchen counter. Inside: cranberry juice, those AZO pills, a pack of crackers, and a heating pad.
No questions, no jokes. Just a gentle, “You okay?” when I peeked out.
That was the first time I thought: maybe this guy, this quiet mechanic with too-long sideburns and a penchant for old records, could actually be something real.
His name was Ravi. We’d met at my friend Aya’s backyard BBQ, and while everyone else buzzed around with drinks and flirtations, he sat under a tree eating ribs and reading a book. Who brings a book to a party?
I asked him that.
He grinned and said, “The ribs are just a bonus.”
Our first few dates were nothing flashy. Diner breakfasts. Thrift stores. One night we slow-danced in his garage to an old Hindi record skipping every few seconds. He wasn’t overly romantic, but he noticed things. He remembered my favorite hot sauce. He texted good luck before my job interviews. He once fixed my wobbly kitchen stool without saying a word.
After the UTI episode, he started dropping by more often—sometimes with samosas, sometimes with fresh mangoes. I should’ve felt smothered, but I didn’t. It felt… comforting. Familiar.
But then, right when I thought I could fall for him fully, he pulled away.
It was subtle at first. Slower replies. No more surprise visits. When we did hang out, he was distracted, checking his phone a lot. I asked once if everything was okay, and he smiled too quickly, saying, “Yeah, just work stuff. Nothing big.”
Except it felt big.
About three weeks into this weird distance, I got a text from Aya.
Aya: “Hey… saw Ravi at Canteen Bar last night. He was with some woman. Looked cozy.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but she sent a photo—blurry, but there he was, sitting across from a woman with bright red braids. His hand was over hers.
I stared at that picture for a full hour. Then I called him.
No answer.
I didn’t hear from him for four more days. When he finally texted, it was casual.
Ravi: “Hey you. Sorry I’ve been quiet. Been hectic. Want to hang tomorrow?”
I didn’t reply. I needed clarity, not crumbs.
But before I could make any decisions, life threw me another twist.
A few nights later, I came home late from work. There was a note taped to my door. Folded in half. My name scribbled in familiar handwriting.
Inside, just two lines:
“I owe you the truth. Meet me at the old train bridge at 7.”
It was unsigned, but I knew it was him. The bridge was where we’d watched the meteor shower in June. Where he’d kissed me slow and said, “This feels like the kind of night you remember.”
So I went. Mostly out of curiosity. Partly out of heartbreak.
He was already there when I arrived, pacing. His face looked drawn, tired.
Before I could say anything, he blurted, “I need to tell you something I should’ve said from day one.”
I braced myself. Married? Secret kid? Double life?
Then he said, “That woman at the bar? That’s my sister. But it’s complicated.”
I squinted. “Sister? You never mentioned a sister.”
He nodded, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Her name’s Shaila. Half-sister, technically. She’s… she’s been in and out of rehab for years. Our mom doesn’t talk about her. I usually don’t either.”
I didn’t say anything. Just let him keep going.
“She called me three weeks ago, asking for help. Said she wanted to get clean again. I’ve been taking her to meetings. Making sure she eats. That night at the bar—she was celebrating ninety days sober. I wasn’t going to skip it.”
My face burned with guilt.
“I didn’t tell you,” he said, “because I didn’t want to drag you into all that. Didn’t want you to think I was some walking mess.”
I stood there, speechless. The wind off the bridge stung my cheeks.
Finally, I said, “Why didn’t you just say that?”
He laughed, but it was sad. “Because I’m not used to being with someone who gives a damn.”
That night, we didn’t kiss. Didn’t even touch. Just sat side by side on the rusted railing, staring at the water.
Over the next month, things shifted. We weren’t “dating” exactly. But we were talking. Real conversations. No games. He told me more about his past—how his dad walked out when he was ten, how he raised Shaila for a while before things went sideways.
I told him about my mom’s gambling issues. How I once had to sell half my closet to keep our lights on.
The honesty stripped away a lot of the fantasy, but it built something sturdier. Something that could hold weight.
And then came the big twist.
My landlord announced he was selling the building. I had 60 days to move.
Panic set in. Rent in the city had doubled. I couldn’t afford a new place alone. My cousin offered her couch, but the thought of living out of boxes again made me want to cry.
Ravi came over the night I got the notice. I showed him the letter and tried to keep my voice steady.
He read it. Then looked at me. “You could stay with me.”
I froze. “You serious?”
He nodded. “I’ve got the space. And the fridge is always too full for one person.”
I hesitated. Living together after four months? Was that insane?
But it didn’t feel crazy. It felt… timely. Like the universe had nudged us both through some emotional obstacle course and now we were here, bruised but better.
So I moved in.
It wasn’t seamless. He left tools everywhere. I left wet towels on the bed. He played records too loud. I hogged the blankets.
But we talked through things. Apologized often. Laughed more.
One evening, about two months into living together, we were cooking. He was chopping cilantro, and I was sautéing onions. He looked up and said, “You know, this is the best part of my day.”
I smiled. “What, making your kitchen smell like curry?”
He shook his head. “No. Just… us. Right here. Like this.”
That same week, Shaila came over for dinner. Sober, smiling, sharper than I’d ever seen her. We played board games and she whooped us both. She hugged me tight when she left and whispered, “Thanks for not judging.”
Months passed. Seasons shifted. Ravi started teaching a night class at the community college—basic car repair. Said it felt good to share what he knew.
I picked up a freelance gig writing local profiles. My first piece? About a quiet mechanic who fixed more than just engines.
And then, almost a year to the day since that UTI incident, Ravi proposed. Not with a ring, but with a question: “What if we just kept choosing each other, every day?”
I said yes. A thousand times, yes.
We didn’t rush a wedding. We didn’t need fireworks. We had grocery runs and couch naps and soft music playing while the rice simmered.
And somehow, that was enough.
I think back sometimes to that bathroom door, and how I was too embarrassed to even let him see me. But he saw me anyway. Saw the messy, human parts and still came back with juice and pills and quiet comfort.
Not everyone gets a grand romance. Sometimes, it’s just someone who knocks and waits. Someone who listens when it’s easier to leave.
If you’re reading this and you’ve been burned by people who vanished when things got real—don’t give up. Real love shows up. Usually in sweatpants, holding cranberry juice.
If this made you smile—or reminded you of someone worth keeping—like and share. You never know who needs the reminder.