At 42, Anya finally dares to love again, only to be met with silence from the man who promised to be there. He vanishes without a word when she needs him the most, leaving her questioning if love is worth the risk after all. I’ve built a life most would call complete. A successful career as an architect, good friends, and a steady rhythm to my days. Yet, I’d often feel so lonely in my quiet apartment. My friends would tell me it was about time I found a partner, but I’d never agree. “Anya, when was the last time you went on a date?” my friend Lisa teased one day.

“Oh, I think my soulmate must be my drafting table at this point.” I laughed it off, but deep down, her words struck a nerve. She rolled her eyes. “Come on, seriously. Don’t you miss having someone around?” I forced a half-smile. “I don’t think it’s in the cards for me. Too much history, too much… complication. “I was 25 the last time I was in love. My high school sweetheart, Stephan, and I had dreams as big as the sky. But life happened. My mom passed away, and grief consumed me.

I still remember Stephan’s last words before he left. “Anya, I can’t do this anymore,” he’d said in a cold voice. “You’ve changed. You’re just too sad, and I need someone who’s happy. I need someone who’s there for me. Not someone who just spends her entire day crying!

“I couldn’t believe it. Instead of staying with me during the worst time of my life, Stephan chose to walk away. I didn’t even ask him to stay back. I cried like a baby the night he left me. However, I soon picked up the broken pieces of my heart and tried to distract my mind by focusing on my work. As years passed, I told myself I didn’t need a man to be happy. I had a thriving career and became the strong, independent woman I’d dreamed of. But deep down, I’d feel the ache for something more whenever I’d see couples on the street.

Lisa and some others nudged me to see a doctor, but I brushed it off as stress from work. After all, a few aches were nothing compared to what I’d been through, right? A few weeks after Lisa’s pep talk, I found myself at a neighborhood charity event. It was one of those pop-up art galleries that featured local artists. I was standing in front of a watercolor painting of a misty mountain when a deep, cheerful voice spoke beside me. “Not bad, right? Although the brushwork here is, uh, interesting.”

I looked over, meeting the eyes of a man with a mischievous grin and an infectious energy that caught me off guard. “Anya,” I said, trying not to smile too much. But something about him drew me in. I guess it was his intelligence. As we talked, his sense of humor and insight made me feel instantly comfortable. I learned he was a history professor, just 35, but surprisingly mature for his age. Unlike other men I’d known, he didn’t rush to impress or make advances. He seemed genuinely interested in art, and in me, without any hidden agenda. There was something refreshingly steady about him.