Half Open

Half Open explores the complexity of love, longing, and the fleeting nature of moments

I arrived at the village, the kind of place you only dream about. The air was fresh, the streets winding through green hills, alive with the sounds of nature. It wasn’t the kind of place I expected, but somehow, it felt right. There, waiting for me, was Anita. She stood at the edge of the path, her smile gentle but knowing, like she had been waiting for this moment for longer than I could comprehend.

Her eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I could see the depth of her longing—there was no need for words. She led me to her place, a small but cozy home, where her brother and possibly her mother greeted me. The interaction was quiet, almost too quiet, but there was no awkwardness. It was as if we were all familiar with the silence, it was comforting, natural. We didn't need to talk much. The weight of the moment was enough.

After a while, we left. I didn’t know where we were going, but the destination didn’t matter. It was just her and I, our steps synchronizing with an unspoken rhythm. We found a room, modest and simple, tucked away on the side of the main road. The door was left slightly ajar, just enough to let the world beyond peer in—cars and tempos rumbled by, people passed, but inside the room, it was just us. Quiet. Intimate. I remember the air feeling thick, heavy with something that could no longer be ignored. The outside world felt distant, unimportant.

We didn’t speak much, just the occasional glance, the smallest shift in our bodies, but our connection was undeniable. I was on top of her, her hands held me tenderly, almost like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go. She was silent, but her gaze, that smile—it was all there. She surrendered to me without a word, but I could feel everything in the way she touched me, in the way she moved beneath me.

We moved slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere. Every touch, every inch, was a discovery. It wasn’t just physical; it was like the whole of me was present in that moment, every part of me feeling a sense of completeness I hadn’t known before. There was no hurry, no end in sight—just the sensation of being there, inside her, filling her.

I knew I was already married. The reality of it didn’t escape me. But in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. She, too, seemed to believe that soon, it would all fall into place, that we would be together as we had once imagined. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. And yet, I couldn’t stop.

The night continued, filled with that same quiet rhythm, as if time itself had slowed down just for us. I could hear the world outside, but it felt miles away, separated by the barrier of our own intimacy. Anita, with her soft smile, her quiet surrender, made me feel like I was exactly where I needed to be.

But as I lay beside her afterward, her warmth still against me, the reality of the situation started creeping back. I had no right to be here. She deserved more than this—more than a fleeting moment of passion and empty promises. But in that moment, all I could feel was regret, not for what had happened, but for what was never going to.

We never spoke of it again. The door stayed slightly open, but I knew we had both seen something in each other that would never fade—something that would remain a memory, a bittersweet yearning for what might have been. The village, the room, the quiet—all of it stayed with me long after I left. And somewhere, I’m sure, Anita remembers too.

But it’s all in the past now, and no matter how much I wish I could change it, there’s no going back. She’s part of a story I can’t rewrite. And yet, in the quiet of my mind, I still feel her smile, still see her eyes, still hear the soft rhythm of that night—half open, half closed, forever lingering in that space between dreams and reality.