Back in 2008, I met a man named Jason. We found each other online during a strange pause in my life—right after I broke my foot. He lived in the same town, knew some of the same people. Our paths had circled each other for years without ever crossing. Until suddenly, they did.

We started talking, and it felt easy in that rare, unforced way. Before long, he came over one evening just to spend time together. The conversation flowed as if we’d been continuing something already begun. There was no awkwardness, no need to perform. We were comfortable with each other immediately, like recognition rather than introduction. When the night ended, neither of us wanted it to.

He kept coming back. He helped care for me while I healed, and somewhere in that tenderness, he simply stayed. Life wasn’t perfect—we had lingering turbulence with our pasts—but beneath it all was something steady and deeply real. We loved each other with care and respect. I took care of him. He took care of me. It was the season of my life when I felt the most loved.

When I look back now, I think part of why that love still feels so sacred is this: he never chose to leave me. Jason died at 34 from a heart attack—sudden, unfair, and final. But it wasn’t abandonment. It wasn’t a turning away. I truly believe that if he had lived, we would have stayed together. What we had felt permanent. We felt like soulmates. And in many ways, I think we always will be.