The Question

In 2012,

someone traveled 300 kilometers just to see me.

He didn’t come to impress me.

He didn’t come to surprise me.

He came with intention.

And then, the question.

He asked if I would let him be my girlfriend —

if we could enter a boyfriend–girlfriend relationship

and get to know each other in that way.

I understood what that meant.

It wasn’t about liking each other.

It was about opening my daily life to someone,

about direction, commitment, and emotional responsibility.

So I asked for time to think.

We stayed in contact during that pause.

We were close.

And in the way he knew best, he spoke through music.

He sent me beautiful songs —

because music was his world,

his language,

his way of offering care.

He was gentle.

Talented.

Kind.

There were many things I admired in him.

But as the weeks passed,

something became clear.

Our communication didn’t meet me where I live.

The conversations were polite but hollow.

Questions arrived without curiosity.

Words were exchanged,

but I didn’t feel understood.

And communication, for me, is not a detail.

It is the foundation —

of love, of friendship, of any human bond.

I tried to see if I could grow into it.

I wondered if I was being too strict.

But the discomfort didn’t fade.

It clarified.

When I realized I could not say yes,

I knew I couldn’t do it through a message or a call.

So we met again.

He traveled another 300 kilometers to see me once more.

I told him honestly that I couldn’t be in a relationship with him.

I didn’t cry.

He did — just a little.

It hurt.

Not because love was wrong,

but because sincerity existed on both sides.

I went straight home afterward.

My family was in the living room —

talking, laughing, continuing their evening.

I took my dinner alone.

A quiet kitchen.

A noisy mind.

I stared.

Not at anything in particular —

just staring while eating,

as if my body knew how to continue

before my thoughts did.

Then my father appeared.

He looked at me for a moment and asked,

half joking, half concerned,

“What are you doing?

Are you eating… or are you crying?”

The question stopped me.

Only then did I notice

that tears were already there,

moving without permission,

sharing space with an ordinary moment,

as if grief and routine

had quietly agreed to coexist.

I had never experienced that before.

I never doubted my decision.

Not for a second.

It was the best I could do.

But the best choice

was still painful.

I wished him well.

I truly did.

I didn’t reject him as a person.

I respected the weight of his question.

He wasn’t asking for romance.

He was asking for a place in my life.

And I answered carefully —

because I knew that saying yes

should never be done lightly.