I met you in Los Cabos.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t part of some elaborate love story or carefully designed moment. It was just… real. Unexpected, organic, and full of all the chaos and beauty that comes with things you never see coming. I didn’t know a simple vacation would change the way I looked at everything.
The trip was supposed to be a reset. Work had been insane. Life felt like a loop I couldn’t escape. So, when my friends suggested a quick getaway to Los Cabos, I didn’t hesitate. Sun, beaches, tacos, and maybe a few margaritas? Count me in.
The first few days were exactly what I needed—lazy mornings, loud music, soft sand under my feet, and salty air in my lungs. I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone. I just wanted to feel like myself again. I didn’t know that you were out there, somewhere, feeling the same.
We met at a beachside bar. I still remember the way the light hit your face—golden hour was doing you a huge favor, but I think it would’ve been the same at 2 a.m. under fluorescent lights. You were laughing with your friends, drink in hand, looking completely alive. Our eyes met for just a second. It wasn’t dramatic. No music swelled. But it was enough.
You walked over first. Said something casual like, “Is that the drink everyone’s been raving about?” I didn’t even know which drink you were talking about, but I nodded like I did and offered you a sip. You took it, smiled, and told me it was awful. That was it. We talked for two hours straight.
There’s something about vacation that makes time feel different. One night feels like a week. A moment feels like a memory. You told me where you were from, how you almost didn’t come on the trip, how you needed a break from everything back home. I told you I felt the same. We clicked—quickly, deeply, and without any of the overthinking that usually clouds these things.
Over the next few days, we were inseparable. Sunrises turned into sunsets with you by my side. We walked the beaches like we’d known each other forever. We shared tacos from street vendors, danced barefoot at midnight, and laughed until our cheeks hurt. We didn’t need anything fancy—we had the ocean, the stars, and each other.
There was a night—I think it was our third—when we sat by the shore, just listening to the waves. You reached for my hand. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t say much. Neither did I. But in that silence, something shifted. It was like we both realized how rare this was. How rare you were.
You opened up to me. Told me about your fears, your dreams, the things you’ve lost, the people you’ve loved. I listened, and you listened back. And in that sharing, we built something fragile but strong—something beautiful and temporary, like a sandcastle that you know will wash away but still take time to build anyway.
I won’t lie—I started to feel something more than I expected. Maybe it was the location. Maybe it was the magic of Los Cabos. Or maybe it was just you. There was a kindness in your voice, a calmness in your presence, a way you made me feel seen without ever needing to try too hard.
But like all good things that happen in borrowed time, the end came quickly. Your flight was a day before mine. We promised to stay in touch, even though neither of us knew what that would look like. We exchanged numbers, took one last walk along the beach, and hugged a little too long at the airport.
I watched you disappear into the crowd, wondering if this was just a beautiful detour or the beginning of something more.
Since then, we’ve kept in touch. Sometimes often. Sometimes not. Life has a way of pulling people in different directions. But every now and then, I’ll get a text from you—just something simple, like a photo from that beach bar or a “remember this song?”—and it all comes rushing back.
I don’t know what we were. Maybe we were just a vacation story. Maybe we were something deeper that never got the chance to grow. Or maybe we were exactly what we needed in that moment—two people, finding comfort in each other when life felt heavy.
I still think about you. Not always. But enough. Enough to know you left an imprint. Enough to know that Los Cabos will always mean something different to me now. It won’t just be a pin on the map or a highlight reel of perfect sunsets. It’ll be the place where I met someone who reminded me what it felt like to connect—genuinely, openly, and without walls.
Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. Maybe we’ll end up in the same city, the same place, at the same time. Or maybe we’ll just smile when we think about that week in paradise—grateful, not sad. Because even if it was short-lived, it was real. And not every story needs to last forever to be meaningful.
So here’s to Los Cabos.
To the waves, the nights, the laughter, and the unexpected.
Here’s to you.
And here’s to the version of me I became when I met you.
