The Shape of Wanting

It started like any other summer night: crickets chirping in the tall grass, the day’s heat softening into something breathable, the faint smell of woodsmoke drifting through the air. We sat side by side on the concrete steps that sloped down toward the river, pretending this was just another night—another shared drink, another laugh that lingered a little too long.

But I had been waiting for something.

I just didn’t know what yet.

There was a quiet electricity between us, threaded through glances and accidental touches, through the way time seemed to slow whenever we were alone together. When I stood and tugged my ripped jeans over my hips, letting them fall into a careless heap behind me, it felt less like a decision and more like surrender. Socks and shoes followed. I didn’t look back right away, afraid the moment would disappear if I hesitated.

When I finally turned, he was watching me. His face wasn’t surprised—just thoughtful, as if he were standing at the edge of a line he hadn’t planned on crossing. For a second, I thought he might stay there. Then something softened in his expression. Trust, maybe. His boots and jeans landed beside mine.

I stepped into the Harpeth River, the water cool and steady around my ankles, then my calves. It felt grounding, like a cleansing I hadn’t realized I needed. The current whispered around my legs, and for a moment I wondered if he would follow—or if this was where the wanting would end.

Footsteps splashed behind me.

I turned, relief blooming in my chest as I saw him wading toward me, his figure broken by moonlight and shadow. A smile spread across my face before I could stop it. It felt vulnerable. I reached for him, beckoning without words.

We laughed as we wandered deeper into the river, the water tugging at our balance. When I slipped, I grabbed his hand without thinking. He held on and steadied me. That simple act sent a quiet thrill through me, as if something unspoken had finally been answered.

We stood facing each other, the air between us thick with waiting. His hand rested at my waist, warm and steady. I searched his face, wondering if he felt it too—the pull, the wondering, the long stretch of almosts that had led us here.

He laughed softly, nervously, and leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant, as if we were each testing whether this was real. It felt surreal in the best way—sweet and overwhelming, like the moment had been building longer than either of us realized. When we pulled back, our smiles mirrored each other, quiet and sure.

We kissed again, deeper this time, the river lapping around our legs, the moon scattering silver across the water. In that moment, I believed I had found what I’d been searching for. Not just the kiss—but the closeness. The choosing.

What I didn’t know then was that yearning doesn’t always disappear when it’s briefly fulfilled. Sometimes it only sharpens.

After that night, we went on dates that felt effortless. We laughed until our sides hurt. We shared music, the radio in his car switching from Lynyrd Skynyrd to Halsey. We listened closely for the parts that mattered—the words we didn’t say to each other but shared in lyrics. Time folded in on itself when we were together. With him, I felt seen in a way that was rare and disarming. He was not just someone I was falling for; he was my best friend and confidant.

I began to yearn forward.

I imagined moments that hadn’t happened yet: more nights like that one, more songs, more laughter. The future stretched out in front of me, vivid and inviting. It felt safe to believe in it—safe because that’s always how he made me feel, even when I told him the worst, most vulnerable parts of myself.

Then one afternoon after work, he pulled me aside.

His voice wavered when he spoke. He said he had been thinking about his ex. About grief, and how the loss of both our significant others had drawn us together too quickly. Tears slipped down his face as he told me he didn’t think we should keep dating.

I listened. I nodded. I told him I understood.

What I didn’t say was how disappointment settled into me like wet cement—how heavy it felt, how sudden. I walked away carrying not just the loss of him, but the loss of everything I had already begun to love about the future. The future I imagined with him.

We stayed in touch. I dated other people. And every time I did, something flickered behind his eyes—jealousy, longing, regret. He reached for me again, and I let him. We went on a few more dates, careful but hopeful, like people afraid to name what they wanted for fear of losing it again.

Then he ended it a second time.

He said he couldn’t give me what I deserved. That his music needed his full attention. That things between us had escalated too quickly. Each sentence felt practiced, gentle in a way that made them hurt more. I realized then that I wasn’t being chosen, and somehow that felt worse than losing him.

After that, the space he left behind felt vast.

I stopped wanting to date anyone else. My head and heart filled with memories of him—our laughter, our playlists, the ease of being together. It felt like my heart was tugging at something just out of reach, like a thread pulling from the other side of my soul.

I had lost more than a lover. I had lost my best friend.

Some nights, I wondered if he was the love of my life, or if loving him had simply ruined me for everyone else. I wondered if someday I would have to settle for something quieter, safer, less consuming. I wondered if some loves are meant to be unfinished, their purpose not to last, but to mark us.

Looking back, I understand now that what I was yearning for wasn’t just him. It was the feeling of being chosen. Of being enough. Of standing in a river under a summer moon and believing, if only for a moment, that the future was finally reaching back toward me too—that I would finally get the fairytale ending I always dreamed about.

Some searches don’t end with answers. Some yearning stays, like this one.

And sometimes, the first kiss isn’t the beginning of a love story; it’s the moment you realize just how deeply you’re capable of wanting—and how painful it is to miss someone who is still alive.

Wanting, I learned, has a shape. It curves around memory. It sharpens in absence. It teaches you how deeply you can reach for someone who is no longer reaching back.