It’s been a while since I felt fate walk into the room without knocking.
You know that kind of fate.
The rude one.
The one that waits until you finally convince yourself you are safe, emotionally unavailable, spiritually retired, and possibly joining a convent, then suddenly it sits across from you, crosses its legs, and says:
“So… about Hercules.”
And of course I said “NO”. Because no sounds safer, “No” sounds mature. “No” is a woman who has learned her lessons, printed them, laminated them, and placed them neatly in a file titled:
Men Who Will Not Make Me Cry Again.
I promised my heart “ I would never fall for a man who fills my eyes with tears or a man who sees them full of tears and walks away.”
I wrote that promise to myself 23May26. Just 3 weeks before I meet him. It was a rule, very clear, very healthy, very reasonable and easy to follow.
I even rewritten it in Shakespearean English “I promise unto mine own heart: my next beloved shall not merely be one who keeps mine eyes from weeping, but one who, should tears yet fill them, would never turn away.”
I made it into a song “Ballad to protect my heart” I called it.
And yet here I am, standing at the edge of something soft, dangerous, and absolutely inconvenient, wondering which one this Hercules will be.
Will he be the man who catches me before I fall?
Or the one who teaches me a new way to break?
Because let’s be honest, love is creative when it wants to hurt you. It does not repeat itself, no pattern to recognize and no mitigation plans that can soften your fall.
It sits next to you wearing a different perfume, tight pants, speaking in a different voice, touching you with different hands and sharing your vape.
Oh wait !!! Was that an indirect kiss?!
Suddenly you are standing there like a fool saying: “But this one feels different.”
What a fool, hopeless, romantic woman. All the self depreciating talk and torture, yet no discipline installed.
She puts on lipstick, opens the door, and calls it destiny.
I wasn’t looking for him.
In fact, I was doing the opposite of looking.
I was making very dramatic announcements to myself like: “I am done with love, will join a convent and I am becoming a nun.”
A peaceful plan, honestly.
A little extreme, yes.
But peace sometimes requires creativity.
And then fate laughed.
Not politely.
Not softly.
It laughed the way gods laugh when mortals make plans.
Because fate had already written him somewhere in the cards, even when I was pretending I could not read them.
Maybe that is the most annoying part.
This gentle Hercules.
This man who speaks in a way that makes my defenses forget their job.
I am falling for how calm he makes me feel. How soft and gentle he sounds even when there is something strong underneath him.
Not loud strength.
Not the kind of strength that needs to enter a room and announce itself.
But the quiet kind.
The kind that makes you feel like if the world became too heavy, he would not panic.
He would just carry it.
Or maybe carry me.
And God helps me, I like that.
I like how small I feel around him.
Not small in the way men sometimes try to make women smaller so they can feel bigger.
No.
Small in the way a woman feels when she can finally put down the sword, the boxing gloves and knee pads.
Small in the way softness returns to her body after years of being her own army.
Small in the way I remember that I am not only superhuman like Rouge but also just a human.
And around him, I feel dainty.
Which is offensive to my entire personality.
I have spent years building myself into someone sharp enough to survive.
Someone funny enough to cover pain.
Someone strong enough to leave when love becames a room with no air.
And now here he comes, making me feel delicate.
How dare he, to quote Friedrich Nietzsche?!
Now, I can’t stop think of him. Well as Nietzsche said, "What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.”
How dare he make me feel like I can be childish without being annoying.
Like I can be playful without being dismissed.
Like I can speak nonsense, laugh too loudly, tease too much, and still not be too much.
To be allowed to be myself with no regards to my feelings?! How will I heal from this if I fall for Hercules ?!
People talk about passion like it is the dangerous part.
They are wrong.
The dangerous part is safety.
Desire is easy to explain.
Chemistry is simple.
A body knows when another body calls it.
But safety?
Safety sneaks in.
Safety sits beside you.
Safety lets your inner child come out barefoot, holding an ice cream cone, asking ridiculous questions, and somehow it does not make her feel stupid.
That is where the trouble starts.
That is where the heart starts unpacking.
And I am trying not to unpack.
I really am.
But then he kisses me.
And there is this thing he does. This very unfair thing…
When his hand finds my throat, not cruelly, not carelessly, but with that rough carefulness that makes my mind go quiet.
What a weird contrast to the past…
I once had a lover who raised a hand in anger, broke my heart before my bones. I learned to fight to protect my body but never found a way to protect my heart.
A dangerous contrast.
Strength and control.
Roughness and tenderness.
A hand that says, “I can handle you,” while still being careful enough not to hurt the softest parts of me.
And I hate how much I like it.
I am trying to sound morally conflicted because it makes the story more respectable.
But the truth?
I like it.
I like how excited I get when he manhandles me like I am something he wants but holds me like I am something he values.
There is a difference.
Men confuse those two all the time.
Wanting a woman is easy.
Valuing her while wanting her?
That is where many of them fail the exam.
But with him, there is this roughness that does not feel like taking.
It feels like being chosen by hands that know their own strength. Not one that lash out in anger.
And maybe that is what terrifies me.
Because my body trusts him before my mind has finished the paperwork.
My body, traitor that she is, has already signed the agreement.
Meanwhile, my mind is still standing there with a clipboard saying:
“Excuse me, we have not completed the risk assessment.”
Very on brand.
But the heart…
The heart does not care about documentation.
The heart is sitting in the corner, kicking her feet, whispering:
“Hercules.”
And I want to tell her not to romanticize him.
I want to remind her that strong men can still be weak in the places that matter.
That gentle voices can still disappear.
That a man can kiss you like a promise and still leave you confused by morning.
I know this.
I have lived this.
I have learned this.
I have paid tuition in heartbreak and graduated with honors.
So why am I here again?
Why am I standing at the beginning of something I cannot control, feeling fate tightens the thread around my wrist?
Maybe because the truth is unavoidable.
Maybe because some people do not enter your life as choices.
They arrive as weather.
You do not decide if it rains.
You only decide whether to stand there pretending you are dry.
And Hercules feels like weather.
Soft thunder.
Warm danger.
A storm that does not raise its voice.
A Hercules with gentle hands and a grip that makes me forget I was ever trying to be a nun.
Poor convent.
It never stood a chance.
I do not know what he will be.
A blessing.
A lesson.
A wound with beautiful manners.
A man who stays.
A man who teaches me another language for pain.
I do not know.
And that is the terrifying part.
Because I am not falling with a safety net.
I am falling with memory.
With fear.
With a heart that still flinches when love moves too fast.
With eyes that have cried enough to know the taste of disappointment.
But still, somehow, I am falling.
Fast.
Softly.
Stupidly.
Honestly.
And maybe that is the most human thing about me.
Not that I survived heartbreak.
Not that I became stronger.
Not that I can laugh at pain while wearing eyeliner and pretending I am above it all.
But that after everything, after every tear, after every man who did not know what to do with my tenderness, I can still feel something beginning.
I can still be moved.
I can still be touched.
I can still look at a man and wonder if fate sent me danger or mercy.
Maybe both.
Because love has always been dramatic like that.
And me?
I am still here.
Falling.
Questioning.
Laughing at myself.
Praying he does not become another chapter titled, "I Should Have Known Better."
But if he does...
Well,
At least I will write it beautifully.
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