The Lust We Felt Was Love

Chapter 3- The Connection.

Lisbon was starting to feel like home.

Not all immediately, just little by little, like morning light that slowly fills a room. Every day felt softer now.

I would wake up to the sound of the sea breeze moving through my curtains, the distant laughter from the street below, and the smell of Lina’s coffee drifting from next door.

I loved those mornings. They made me feel alive and calm at the same time. My apartment was small but full of light. Sometimes I would sit by the window for hours, writing, watching people walk by, and wondering where they were going. My words started to come easier.

I was finally writing again, not for anyone, just for me. Still, I found my thoughts drifting toward Evan more often than I wanted to admit. He was everywhere, in my writing, in my daydreams, in the quiet moments between sentences.

One Saturday morning, he texted me: “Art gallery at noon? I will buy you lunch after.”

I smiled at my phone for too long before replying, “Yes, of course.”

The gallery was small but full of color. Paintings of the sea covered the walls, blue waves, golden skies, and faces that looked like they were waiting for something.

I stopped in front of a painting of a woman standing by the shore. She looked both sad and peaceful.

“She looks lonely,” I said softly. Evan came to stand beside me.

“Or maybe she is waiting,” he said.

I looked at him. He was watching the painting, his eyes calm but deep. There was something about the way he looked at things, like he could see what most people missed.

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the gallery, talking quietly. Sometimes we laughed.

Sometimes, we just looked.

I liked the silence between us, it didn’t feel awkward. It felt safe.

Afterward, we went to a café by the river. The air smelled of salt and coffee. Boats drifted by, slow and lazy.

“I like this city,” I said. “I do too,” he replied.

“But I think I like it more now,” he said so simply, but my heart skipped a little beat.

In the weeks that followed, we started spending more time together, not because we planned to, but because it just kept happening.

We went to markets, bookshops, and quiet cafés where the waiters already knew our orders.

He told me about his childhood in Dublin, rainy streets, small art shops, and his first sketchbook.

I told him about Lagos, the noise, the colors, the stories in every corner.

He laughed when I told him how I wrote my first story at twelve, a silly tale about a talking mango tree.

“You have always been a storyteller,” he said.

“And you’ve always been an artist,” I replied.

He smiled. “Maybe. But I think I lost it for a while.”

There was something about the way he said it that made me quiet. Like there was a sadness he did not want to name.

One evening, as we walked by the harbor, I asked softly, “You do not talk much about your past, do you?”

He was quiet for a moment, watching the water.

Then he said, “There was someone. Her name was Clara. We were together for a long time. I thought it would last forever.

But one day, she left. Said she needed to find herself.”

I did not say anything at first. His voice had that kind of pain that time doesn’t fully heal.

“That must have hurt,” I said gently.

“It did,” he replied. “For a while, I stopped painting. Everything reminded me of her.”

Without thinking too much, I reached out and touched his hand. Just for a moment. He looked at me, surprised but not uncomfortable.

“I guess I am still learning how to start again,” he said quietly.

I nodded. “So am I, In my own way.” We walked in silence after that, side by side, the night wind brushing our faces.

I felt close to him, not in the way of lovers, not yet. Just two people, both healing, both trying to find their way.

That night, I could not stop thinking about him. About the way his voice softened when he talked about her, about the loneliness that lingered in his eyes.

He was not perfect, and he wasn't trying to be. That was what made him real.

For so long, I had built walls around myself, afraid to trust anyone again. But Evan had found a way in without even trying.

Maybe it was his quietness. Maybe it was his honesty. Or maybe it was the way he looked at the world, as if everything still had meaning, even after being broken.

The next morning, Evan and I saw more of Lisbon together.

He showed me places I might never have found alone, an old library hidden behind a park, a hill where you could see the whole city glowing at sunset, a quiet record shop that played jazz every evening.

I loved those moments. The way the city lights reflected in his eyes, the way he listened when I spoke, as if every word mattered.

Sometimes we didn’t talk much at all. We would just walk, side by side, comfortable in the quiet.

There was something peaceful about that, being with someone who did not need to fill every silence.

At the writing fellowship, things were going well.

My mentors said I had found “my voice.” I did not know if that was true, but I did know that writing felt easier now.

Lina noticed the change too.

One afternoon, she leaned against my door with her paintbrush still in hand and said, “you are glowing lately.”

I laughed. “Maybe it is just the Lisbon sun.” She smirked. “Or maybe it is someone who likes the same cafés as you.”

I rolled my eyes, pretending to focus on my laptop, but I could not hide my smile. Lina always saw right through me.

A few days later, I was writing at my favorite café when my phone rang. It was Maya, my best friend from Lagos.

Her voice was loud and full of warmth. “My superstar writer!” she said. “How is Lisbon treating you?”

I laughed. “It is beautiful. Peaceful. And it is confusing sometimes.” “Confusing how?”

I hesitated. “There is someone. His name is Evan. We have been spending a lot of time together.”

“Ooooh,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

“It is not like that,” I said quickly, though I was not sure I believed myself. “We are just friends.”

“Friends,” she repeated, dragging the word playfully. “And how do you feel when you see him?”

I paused. “Happy. Safe. Curious.”

“And when you don’t see him?”

That one was harder to answer. “Empty,” I said finally.

Maya sighed. “Then, my dear Tari, I think you already know what that means.” After we hung up, her words lingered in my mind.

Evan and I met again the next evening. We sat by the river, watching the water move under the bridge. The air was cool, and the lights shimmered across the surface.

He showed me some of his sketches, old buildings, quiet corners of the city, faces of people he had seen but never spoken to.

“They are beautiful,” I said.

He smiled shyly. “They are pieces of moments I did not want to forget.”

I nodded. “Maybe that is what writing is too, trying to keep a moment alive.”

We sat there for a long time, not saying much. The kind of quiet that feels right, like both hearts were breathing in rhythm.

He turned to me after a while. “You have changed since I first met you,” he said softly.

“How so?”

“You seem lighter,” he said. “Like you finally let go of something heavy.”

I smiled. “Maybe I did.”

He didn’t ask what it was, and I was glad. Some things didn’t need to be explained.

When I got home that night, I sat by my window and looked at the city below. I thought of the days behind me, the laughter, the quiet walks, the stories we had shared.

And I realized something simple but true.... I looked forward to seeing him every day.

He had become a part of my days, my thoughts, even my writing. He made the city feel alive, and my heart felt awake again.

It was not love yet, at least not the kind that sweeps you off your feet. It was something slower, deeper, and real.

I touched my chest lightly and whispered to myself, “I think I am falling for him.”

And when I said it, I smiled, not because it was easy, but because it finally felt right.