I met Albert four years ago in a place I never imagined love would find me—the gym.
It was a quiet weekday evening, the kind that felt suspended between rush hour and nightfall. The gym was half-empty, its air filled with the low hum of treadmills and the rhythmic clank of metal weights. I liked coming at that hour. Fewer eyes. Less pressure. Just me, my music, and the small determination I clung to after a long day.
I was struggling with a set of dumbbells, my arms trembling as I tried—unsuccessfully—to lift something clearly beyond my strength. Sweat trickled down my temples, my jaw clenched in stubborn refusal to give up.
"That might be a bit too ambitious," a voice said gently beside me.
Startled, I looked up.
He was tall, finely built, with muscles that looked earned rather than flaunted. Handsome in a calm, effortless way. His presence wasn't loud, but it commanded attention. His eyes held warmth, curiosity—nothing arrogant or intrusive.
Before I could respond, he stepped forward and steadied the weight, helping me lower it carefully back into place.
"You should consider a smaller one," he added with a smile. "Don't you think?"
"The bigger, the better," I replied breathlessly, laughing despite myself. "But thank you. I'll… think about it."
He chuckled, clearly amused.
"Are you new here?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, wiping my palms on my leggings.
"The gym isn't really big," he continued casually. "And it doesn't get a lot of people. I know most of the regulars."
"Most people?" I teased. "That sounds official."
He laughed, the sound warm and easy. "Fair point."
He stretched out his hand. "I'm Albert. Albert Peters."
"Susan Doe," I replied, shaking his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Susan. I hope we become gym buddies."
Then, just like that, he walked back to his section, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and a smile I couldn't quite shake.
I watched him go, surprised at how light my chest felt.
"Sure," I muttered to myself.
We crossed paths often after that. Sometimes it was just a nod from across the room. Other times, short conversations between sets—comments about workouts, jokes about sore muscles, harmless laughter. Slowly, naturally, those small moments stretched into longer ones.
Eventually, we exchanged numbers.
A week later, Albert asked me to dinner.
That was when I learned about June.
Over dinner, between polite laughter and shared stories, he mentioned her—casually at first, then more honestly. His tone shifted, his shoulders tensing just slightly.
"I'm in a relationship," he said. "Or… I was. It's complicated."
"Complicated how?" I asked carefully, suddenly aware of my heartbeat.
"We've been going through a rough phase," he replied. "For a while now."
I tried to be encouraging. "Every relationship has rough phases. You'll be fine."
He shook his head slowly. "I don't think I want to stick around for this one."
That surprised me.
"I want to end things with her," he said quietly.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"June."
The name felt heavy the moment it left his lips, like it carried history I couldn't see.
"Do you love her?" I asked, unsure why I needed to know.
He looked at me then—really looked at me. The restaurant noise faded into the background.
"I'm ashamed to say this," he admitted, "but I do. I love her. I love her so much it hurts to say it."
My heart skipped painfully, a strange ache settling in my chest.
"But," he continued, "does love count when sacrifices can't be made?"
The question lingered between us.
"I guess it doesn't," I said softly.
"Have you talked to her about it?" I asked.
"Many times," he replied. "I don't think she cares anymore."
He sighed. "At this point, I just want to move on."
Then, as if sensing the weight of the moment, he smiled and changed the subject.
"Enough about me. What about you?"
"Me?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Are you in a relationship?"
"No," I replied. "My last one ended two years ago. I'm trying to figure out my life and career. Dating feels like a distraction."
"No," he said gently. "Dating the wrong person is a distraction."
I looked at him.
"Some partners push us toward greatness," he continued. "Others destroy us and leave us empty."
I nodded slowly. "I'm afraid I agree."
"Of course you do," he said with a grin. "Now please—eat."
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
Our friendship deepened effortlessly. We talked about everything—work, dreams, disappointments, fears. I started visiting his home. We laughed a lot. Trusted easily. I felt seen in a way I hadn't in years.
Then one evening, without warning, Albert asked me to be his girlfriend.
"What about June?" I stammered.
"I broke up with her a month ago," he said, his eyes steady on mine.
I froze. "I didn't know."
"Don't you think it's too early?" I asked honestly.
"Is it?" he replied. "I don't think it's too early to go for who I love."
Love.
The word echoed in my mind like a promise.
I looked at him—young, handsome, successful, gentle, admired. Everything I had ever wanted. Everything I believed I deserved.
"So it's really over between you two?" I asked again. "June, I mean."
"Yes, babe."
"And this isn't a rebound?"
He frowned. "Rebound? No, Susan. I would never do that to you."
I hesitated.
Why wouldn't I believe him? I asked myself. He promised.
"Yes," I finally said. "I'll be your girlfriend."
His face lit up like I had handed him the world.
"I'll make you happy, Susan," he said before kissing me.
The kiss was deep, warm, consuming. My legs trembled, my heart raced. But when it grew too intense, uncertainty crept in and I pulled away shyly.
"I'm sorry," I murmured.
"It's okay," he said gently. "Take your time."
That night, when he dropped me off, I couldn't stop smiling.
I was in love.
Or at least, I thought I was.
Now, sitting in my kitchen years later, June's name echoing in the air, I realized something terrifying.
Love doesn't disappear just because you believe it has ended.
Sometimes, it waits.