Not a Home to Return To

That night, I opened a dating app without really expecting to find anyone.

I was only bored.

Maybe I was lonely, too.

I scrolled through several profiles without paying much attention. I read short descriptions, looked at a few photographs, and moved on. They all felt like a line of faces that would never truly enter my life.

Then a notification appeared.

Her: Hi.

Just one word.

There was no clever opening line. No flirtation or carefully prepared question. Still, for some reason, I replied.

You: Hi.

Her: Finally.

You: Have you been waiting long?

Her: About three minutes.

You: I’m sorry I made you wait that long.

Her: I almost gave up and moved on with my life.

I laughed quietly at the message.

You: Good thing I arrived just in time to save it.

Her: Don’t be too confident. I’m only bored.

You: What a coincidence. So am I.

That was how our conversation began: two people admitting that they had nothing better to do.

We talked about things that were not particularly important. Food we disliked. Overrated films. Sleeping habits. Whether rice porridge should be stirred before eating.

She was fun.

She knew how to respond to a joke without making the conversation feel forced. Whenever I sent her a terrible joke, she did not simply reply with a laughing emoji. She sent an even worse one and called it punishment for making her listen to mine.

Her: Do you always talk this much?

You: Only with certain people.

Her: Am I one of those people?

You: Not yet. You’re still on probation.

Her: You’re incredibly arrogant.

You: You are free to resign.

Her: No. I want to see how badly this ends.

I did not know that one day her sentence would feel like a warning.

---

For the next two weeks, we messaged each other almost every day.

Her name became one of the first things I saw in the morning and one of the last before I went to sleep.

Sometimes she sent a photograph of her lunch.

Sometimes I sent a long complaint about work.

She told me about her family, her friends, and the small dreams she wanted to make real. She wanted a house with wide windows, plants in the corners, and a dining table that people actually used instead of keeping it as decoration.

Her: I like a house that feels alive.

You: I prefer somewhere quiet.

Her: Then we’ll need two houses.

You: Why do we suddenly own houses together?

Her: Not together. My house will be noisy. Yours will be quiet.

You: Where will we live?

Her: That depends on which one of us is angry.

At the time, I thought it was only a joke.

I did not notice how quickly the word “we” had begun appearing in our conversations.

After two weeks, the dating app started to feel too small for everything we wanted to say. Notifications arrived late, and sometimes messages failed to send.

I gathered enough courage to ask for her number.

You: Do you want to move to WhatsApp?

Her reply did not come immediately.

Three minutes suddenly felt much longer than before.

Her: Why?

You: It’ll be easier to talk there.

Her: We can talk here.

You: We can. But I want an excuse to save your number.

Her: You’re learning how to flirt.

You: Is that a yes?

Her: Fine.

She sent me her phone number.

I saved it immediately, although I spent several minutes wondering what name I should use.

In the end, I chose the simplest one.

Her real name.

No heart emoji. No private nickname.

But from that day onward, her name began filling my screen.

---

Our conversations on WhatsApp became more intense.

We no longer exchanged only text messages. We sent voice notes, random photographs, short videos, and stories about things we rarely shared with anyone else.

One night, she suddenly asked if she could call me.

Her: Can you talk right now?

You: I can. What happened?

Her: Nothing. I just want to know whether your real voice sounds like your voice notes.

You: What if it doesn’t?

Her: I’ll hang up.

A few seconds later, her call appeared on my screen.

I took a breath before answering, as if I were preparing for something important.

You: Hello?

A quiet laugh came through the speaker.

Her: It sounds the same.

You: Did you think I was using a fake voice?

Her: Maybe you hired a voice actor.

The call that was supposed to last only a few minutes continued for almost three hours.

We talked about childhood, fear, family, failure, and the things we had kept hidden for years.

She told me about a relationship that had ended badly. She told me how someone had once made her feel as if she were never enough. She admitted that she was terrified of being abandoned without an explanation.

I listened.

When it was my turn, I told her that I had loved someone once.

But I did not tell her everything.

I did not say that part of me was still waiting for the woman from my past to return.

I did not say that I still remembered her voice, her habits, and the way she made the world feel a little quieter.

I only said that it was over.

Perhaps I was not lying to her that night.

Perhaps I was lying to myself.

---

After that first call, we began calling more often.

We talked almost every night.

Sometimes we had nothing to discuss. We simply left the call connected while we continued with our own lives.

She read a book.

I finished my work.

Every now and then, one of us said the other’s name just to make sure the connection had not disappeared.

Her: Are you still there?

You: I’m still here.

Her: Why are you so quiet?

You: I don’t know what to say.

Her: That’s okay. Just don’t hang up.

I stayed.

At the time, I thought the desire to remain connected was love.

I thought that because I felt less lonely, my heart must have found someone new.

I did not understand that loneliness and love sometimes wear almost the same face.

---

Eventually, we planned our first meeting.

We agreed to meet at a shopping mall on Saturday afternoon. I arrived almost thirty minutes early because I was afraid of being late.

I stood near the entrance and checked my phone again and again.

Her: I’m here.

You: Where?

Her: Try to find me.

I looked around.

Among the people passing through the entrance, I saw a woman standing with a phone in her hand. She wore a simple white blouse and dark trousers.

When our eyes met, she smiled.

I recognized that smile even though I had never seen it outside a photograph.

She raised one hand in a small wave.

Her: Hi.

You: Hi.

For several seconds, we only looked at each other awkwardly.

Her: You’re taller than I imagined.

You: You look more real than your profile picture.

Her: Is that a compliment or an insult?

You: I haven’t decided yet.

She laughed, and the awkwardness slowly disappeared.

We went to a restaurant she had chosen. She claimed it served the best food in the world. After tasting it, I decided that she was far too easy to impress.

You: This is what you call the best food in the world?

Her: It’s good, isn’t it?

You: It’s acceptable.

Her: You have no taste.

You: I do. That’s why I came to meet you.

She stopped chewing and stared at me.

Her: Where did you learn that line?

You: I made it myself.

Her: Don’t use it on another woman.

You: Does that mean I can use it on you again?

Her: We’ll see.

After lunch, we wandered without a plan. We entered a bookstore, looked at things we had no intention of buying, and sat in a coffee shop until evening.

Being with her felt easy.

There were no silences that lasted too long. Neither of us seemed eager to go home.

When I walked her to the place where she was waiting for her ride, I realized that I did not want the day to end.

Her: Tell me when you get home.

You: You too.

Her: Today was nice.

You: It was.

Her: That’s all?

You: It was very nice.

She smiled, satisfied.

Her: See you again.

You: See you again.

That night, before I had even reached home, I already missed our conversation.

---

We met again.

Then we met again.

Whatever existed between us grew so quickly that I never stopped to ask where it was going.

She began calling me names that no one else used. I learned how to recognize her mood from the way she typed.

When her replies became short, I knew something was bothering her.

When she sent too many emojis, I knew she was excited.

When she called without asking first, I knew she needed someone to listen.

A few weeks later, we sat inside my car after dinner. Rain fell heavily outside, and the windows had begun to fog.

She looked out through the glass.

Her: What are we, exactly?

I became quiet.

I had known the question would come. But when she finally asked it, I still did not have an answer I had honestly considered.

You: What do you think we are?

Her: Don’t answer my question with another question.

You: I like you.

Her: Only like?

You: I want us to try being together.

She turned toward me.

Her: Are you sure?

I should have paused.

I should have asked my own heart.

But her face was full of hope, and I was too afraid of losing the person who had made my days feel less empty.

You: I’m sure.

She smiled.

That night, we officially became a couple.

---

In the beginning, everything felt good.

We wished each other good morning. We shared updates about our days. We made lists of places we wanted to visit and food we wanted to try.

She talked about the future as if I would always be somewhere inside it.

Her: We have to go here someday.

You: Sure.

Her: Don’t just say sure. Save the place.

You: Yes, Boss.

Her: I’m serious.

You: So am I.

But as time passed, something began to feel wrong.

I did not understand it immediately.

She was good to me.

She paid attention. She listened to my stories. She always tried to be present when I needed her.

There were no terrible arguments.

There was no betrayal.

There was not a single moment I could point to and use as proof that our relationship was bad.

Yet whenever she said she missed me, something inside me felt guilty.

Whenever she held my hand, my mind sometimes remembered another hand I had once held.

Whenever she talked about our future, I felt as if I were standing before the door of a beautiful house without ever finding the courage to enter.

I tried to convince myself that comfort would become love with enough time.

I tried seeing her more often.

I tried becoming a more attentive partner.

I bought her favorite food. I asked about her day. I listened to every complaint. I stayed on the phone with her until late at night.

But the harder I tried, the more our relationship felt like a role I had agreed to perform.

I smiled because I was supposed to smile.

I said I missed her because she said she missed me.

I said I was fine because I did not know how to explain the emptiness inside me.

Then one night, after our call ended, I opened an old conversation that I should have deleted long ago.

The name of the woman from my past was still there.

I read our old messages.

Plans that never happened.

Promises that were never kept.

Two people who had once loved each other and eventually chosen different roads.

That was when I finally understood what had been missing.

I was not finished.

I had never truly let go of the woman who had once occupied my heart.

I had only covered the wound with someone else’s presence, hoping closeness could erase memory.

The woman beside me was never my destination.

She had become somewhere I hid from loneliness.

And she deserved better than that.

---

I began pulling away.

I no longer answered her messages as quickly as before.

I let her calls ring.

When she asked if I was busy, I said yes, even when I was only sitting alone and staring at the screen.

Her: What’s happening to you lately?

You: Nothing.

Her: You’ve changed.

You: I just have a lot on my mind.

Her: Talk to me.

You: Later.

But later never came.

I disappeared for almost a week.

Not because I hated her.

Not because I did not care.

I was simply a coward.

I was afraid of hearing her voice when I told her that everything we had shared was still not enough to make me stay.

I was afraid of watching her become hurt.

I did not realize that my silence was already hurting her more deeply than the truth.

On the seventh day, she sent a long message.

Her: I don’t know what happened to you.

Her: If I did something wrong, tell me.

Her: If you need time, I can understand.

Her: But don’t make me feel as if I never meant anything to you.

I read it again and again.

At last, I called her.

She answered after the phone had rung for a long time.

Her: Hello?

Her voice was quiet.

Nothing like the cheerful voice that usually greeted me.

You: We need to talk.

Her: I’ve been waiting a week for you to say that.

I took a breath.

You: I’m sorry.

Her: What is actually happening?

I tried to arrange the words in a way that would not hurt her.

But there is no gentle way to tell someone that the love they received was never complete.

You: I think there’s something wrong with me.

Her: With us?

You: Yes.

Silence.

Her: Do you not love me anymore?

I closed my eyes.

You: I care about you.

Her: That isn’t an answer.

You: I don’t know whether what I felt was ever truly love.

I heard her breathing grow heavier on the other end of the call.

Her: Then what was all of this?

You: I thought I was finished with my past.

Her: But you weren’t?

You: I wasn’t.

She said nothing for a long time.

Her: Is there someone else?

You: There is no other relationship.

Her: But your heart is still with her?

I could not lie anymore.

You: Yes.

She released a long breath.

Her: Why did you ask me to begin something when you had not finished what came before?

You: I thought I could.

Her: You thought you could use me to forget someone else?

You: That wasn’t what I meant to do.

Her: But that is what you did, isn’t it?

I had no answer.

Because she was right.

Her: Was I only a distraction?

You: You were more than that.

Her: If I were more than that, you would not have made me feel this way.

Her voice began to tremble.

You: I’m sorry.

Her: I don’t need your apology right now.

You: I don’t want to keep hurting you.

Her: You started hurting me when you chose silence.

That sentence struck harder than her anger ever could.

She was right again.

Her: So this is the end?

You: I think our worlds are different.

Her: Don’t blame the world.

I said nothing.

Her: Our worlds are not different. Your heart was simply never here.

I lowered my head even though she could not see me.

You: Maybe you’re right.

Her: I wish you had been honest from the beginning.

You: I wish I had understood myself sooner.

Her: I hope one day you finally let go of your past.

You: And I hope you find someone who can love you completely.

Her: That person was supposed to be you.

The call became quiet.

There were no words left that could repair what I had done.

Her: Goodbye.

You: Goodbye.

The call ended.

---

I stared at my phone for a long time.

Her name was still there.

Our conversation was still filled with photographs, jokes, plans, and sentences that had once felt like the beginning of something beautiful.

I did not delete it immediately.

Not because I expected her to return.

I was simply not ready to accept that someone who had been part of every day for three months had suddenly become part of my past.

In the silence of that night, I finally understood something.

Not everyone who makes us feel less lonely is someone we truly love.

Not every relationship filled with laughter becomes a place that feels like home.

She was a good woman.

She came to me with honest intentions. She opened her heart and trusted me enough to let me stay inside it.

But I came to her carrying a heart crowded with the shadow of someone else.

I used her warmth as shelter, then left when I realized it was not the home I had been searching for.

Perhaps I said our worlds were different because that was easier than admitting the truth.

There was nothing wrong with her world.

There was nothing wrong with the way she loved me.

I was the one who had not been ready to receive something new.

I knocked on her door while part of me was still waiting for an old one to open.

And when I finally left, I wounded someone who had never agreed to become an escape.

Since then, I have learned that before asking someone to become our home, we must be certain that our heart truly wants to return to them.

Someone who loves us sincerely deserves more than becoming a temporary place to stay.

And she—the woman who said “hi” first—may once have been somewhere warm.

But for me, she was not a home to return to.