The Lust We Felt Was Love

Chapter 2 - When The Words Found Me

I woke up the next morning, full of life.

The sun came through my window gently and touched my face. I didn’t move, I just lay on the bed, listening to cars moving, people's footsteps, and voices in Portuguese.

I could not understand what they said, but I liked the sound. It felt calm and musical.

I sat up and stretched.

Today was my first day of my writing fellowship. My heart beat fast just thinking about it. I had waited a long time for this, months of emails and calls, planning and saving.

Now, I am really here in Lisbon, living a dream I used to talk about with my best friend Maya back in Lagos.

I smiled as I looked at my small apartment. The walls were white and the curtains light blue. I saw a small balcony, and through it, I could see the rooftops of other buildings.

For breakfast, I made tea and ate bread with butter. It was not much, but it made me feel at home. I already missed Lagos, the noise, the hot ground, the way people talked and laughed loudly.

But I also felt something new, a quiet peace that I did not know I needed.

I put on a simple white blouse and jeans and tied my hair back.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled.

“You are here now, Tari”. I whispered. “You did it.”

Then I picked up my notebook, put it in my bag, and walked outside.

The Writing House was in an old part of Lisbon, not far from the river.

The building was painted white with tall windows and vines climbing its walls. It looked like it had been there for years, maybe centuries.

When I walked in, I could smell coffee, paper, and something like history. A friendly woman at the front desk looked up.

“You must be Tari,” she said with a smile. “From Nigeria?” “Yes,” I said, smiling back.

“Welcome to the fellowship,” she said.

“The others are upstairs in the main room.”

I climbed the staircase, my heart beating fast.

Upstairs, there was a bright room filled with sunlight. Six other people sat around a large wooden table. Some were writing, others were talking gently.

Everyone looked relaxed but focused. A tall woman with short silver hair stood at the front.

“You must be Tari,” she said.

“I am Marina, the fellowship director. We are very happy to have you.” “Thank you,” I said quietly, feeling shy.

We went around introducing ourselves.

There was Luca from Italy, who wrote poetry.

Amira from Egypt, who was working on a children's book, and two others writing novels.

Everyone had their own story. When it got to me, I said, “I am Tari. I write about people finding truth and courage in their everyday lives.”

Marina smiled. “Then you are in the right place.” We spent the morning talking about writing, why we write, what inspires us, and how words can heal people.

I did not speak much; I listened. But deep inside, I felt something awaken again. That old fire I thought I had lost. At lunch, Marina gave us a tour of the city streets nearby.

“Lisbon has stories in every corner,” she said. “Let it speak to you.” By evening, I returned to my apartment.

I was tired but happy.

Then, I met Lina, my neighbor. She looks nice, cheerful and has curly brown hair.

She's from Portugal. She was always smiling, always humming some song I didn’t know.

One morning, I went over to borrow sugar, and we started talking.

Her apartment was small but warm. The walls were full of paintings, colorful, full of life. A soft smell of mint tea filled the air.

“I paint,” she said, noticing me looking at her work. “It’s how I breathe.”

“That’s beautiful,” I said.

She poured two cups of tea and handed me one.

“So, what brings you to Lisbon?” “I got accepted into a writing fellowship,” I said. “I am here for six months.”

Her eyes lit up. “A writer! That’s amazing. Lisbon will love you.”

We talked for hours about art, Lagos, Lisbon, and life. She told me she moved from Portugal two years ago and lived alone with her cat, Nino.

“He’s sleeping now,” she said, pointing at a basket. “He thinks he is the landlord here.”

I laughed. “He looks like one too.”

Before I left, Lina said something I did not forget.

“You will like it here, Tari. People come to Lisbon to find something.

Sometimes, they don’t even know what they’re looking for. But the city always gives them something back.”

Her words stayed with me long after I got back to my apartment.

The next few days passed quickly.

Each morning, I took the street car to the Writing House.

I would sit by the window, notebook open, watching people outside.

Old men reading newspapers and children running. Every face looked like a story waiting to be told.

In the afternoons, Marina would give us small writing tasks.

One day, she said, “Go outside and write about something that moves you. Don’t think too hard. Just feel free to write what you can see and feel.”

So that is what I did. I walked through the streets until I found a little café by the water. The air smelled of coffee and fresh pastries. I chose a seat in the corner near the window.

I pulled out my notebook and started writing about the people around me. A soft music was playing in the background, I kept writing, then I looked up, and froze.

That was the first time I saw him again.

He was standing at the counter, ordering coffee. He looked calm, wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans.

Something about him felt familiar, though I could not say why.

Maybe it was his quietness, or the way he looked calm and breath taking. He turned slightly, and our eyes met.

For a second, it felt like the world slowed down.

He smiled politely.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, pointing at the chair across from me.

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Sure.”

He sat down, holding his cup carefully.

“I am Evan,” he said.

“Tari,” I replied, smiling softly.

We talked about little things, the weather, the view, the sound of the sea outside.

I told him I was new to the city, and he told me he worked nearby as a designer.

“So, what do you write?” he asked.

“Mostly stories about people and truth,” I said. “About finding peace after losing something.”

He nodded slowly. “That is brave. Writing about truth is never easy.”

There was a short silence, but it did not feel awkward. Just quiet and calm. He looked around the café and said, “I come here a lot. It is peaceful.

Feels like the world has stopped spinning for a while.” I smiled. “That is probably why I like it too.”

When it was time to leave, he said, “Maybe I shall see you here again.” “Maybe,” I said, smiling back. I did not know it then, but that small moment would stay with me.

Days of calm, the following week passed gently.

I woke up early, went to the Writing House, and wrote for hours. My words began to feel alive again, like something inside me had opened.

Lina came over often. She would bring cookies or show me a new painting she was working on.

“I paint what I feel,” she told me once.

“Even the untidy feelings.” “I write the same way,” I said.

She laughed. “Then we are both artists of chaos.”

Sometimes we sat by my window, watching the sunset together without saying a word. She was easy to be around, warm, kind, and full of color, just like her art.

One evening, she said, “You seem lighter these days, Tari.” “I think I am finally starting to breathe again,” I replied.

Two weeks later, I went back to the same café by the river. It has become my favorite spot to think. I ordered tea and found a quiet seat near the window.

And then, I saw him again, Evan. He was sitting near the counter this time, sketching something in a small notebook.

He noticed me and smiled. “Tari, right?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised but happy. “You remember?”

“Of course,” he said. “Writers are hard to forget.”

I laughed lightly. “You sound like you collect them.” “Maybe just the interesting ones,” he teased.

We talked again, this time more deeply.

He told me he grew up in Manchester but had lived in Lisbon for four years. “I came here for a job,” he said.

“But I stayed quiet.” “I think I came for the same reason,” I said.

We shared stories about our work, our fears, and the strange loneliness that sometimes came with creativity. I told him how hard it was to write when I felt unsure of myself.

He nodded. “I know that feeling, too. It is like chasing light in the dark.”

We sat there for a long time, talking and laughing. When it was time to leave, he stood up and said softly, “It’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t rush their words.”

I smiled. “It’s nice talking to someone who listens.”

That night, as I walked home, I felt so light and happy within me. Everything felt slower, softer. Days turned into weeks.

My writing grew stronger.

Marina often read my drafts and smiled.

“You’re writing from your heart now,” she told me one afternoon. Lina noticed too.

“You glow when you talk about your stories,” she said.

“Maybe they’re starting to come alive,” I replied.

Sometimes, I would see Evan at the café again. We didn’t plan it, it just happened. We would talk for hours about movies, travel, dreams, and silly things that made us laugh.

There was something easy about being around him. No pressure, no need to impress. Just quiet understanding. He never crossed any lines, and neither did I.

But there was a kind of connection, soft and unspoken, like a song you hum without words.

One evening, after a long day at the Writing House, I stood on my balcony, watching the sunset. The sky turned orange and gold, the air warm and gentle. I thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks.

I had found new friends, new peace, and maybe.... just maybe, something new stirring inside me.

Lina texted me just then: “Did you write today?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And I think I met someone worth writing about.”

She replied with a single heart emoji and a line that made me smile.

“Don’t rush it. Let life do its thing.” I looked out at the city, the lights flickering like stars, and whispered to myself,

“I can do this, I just know I can pull this” And somehow, I knew, my story was just beginning.

Chapter Thre