When it all happened, it was simple.

I wasn't expecting it. I wasn't making plans, I wasn't looking for someone special. I simply opened the app https://www.sofiadate.com/type-dating/dating-over-30 one evening, when the rain was melting outside and the room smelled of coffee. The world seemed quiet, almost transparent. At that moment, I just wanted a little warmth—a few phrases, a light laugh, a short conversation to remind myself that life still resonates.

And then—a message. Simple, without unnecessary words. Something like, "Hi, are you awake too?" Usually, I responded politely but distantly. But then—something familiar flickered between the letters. Ease. Not tension, not flirtation, but a simple human presence. As if we were both simply tired of pretending and wanted a little realness.

The correspondence dragged on. At first, the usual topics: movies, work, morning coffee. Then, deeper: fears, memories, dreams. I was surprised how easy it was to talk to him. Without posing, without the need to please. We texted each other at night, and those conversations were more alive than some of our meetings over the years.

When we first met, everything was very calm. No storms or fireworks. He smiled, and I felt warm, as if I'd returned to a place I'd once been. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and I suddenly realized I didn't want this evening to end. Not because he was perfect, but because with him, it was easy to be myself.

Dating often seems random—a collection of stories, attempts, coincidences. But maybe that's precisely the magic in this randomness. We meet people when we stop looking. When we simply live, without expecting anything special. And then life suddenly quietly places someone in the palm of your hand who becomes your reflection.

With him, everything turned out to be simple. There was no need to play, to prove, to explain. We simply were. He laughed when I was silent, and listened when I searched for words. Sometimes we simply sat in silence—and it held more meaning than hundreds of confessions.

Now, looking back, I understand: the most important encounters come quietly. Without grand proclamations, without scenes, without a premonition of fate. They enter life like breathing—light, natural, warm. And only later do you realize that from that moment on, everything was different.

Maybe this is what true love is—not loud, not ideal, not cinematic. But simple, like a look. Soft, like an evening after the rain. The kind that happens when you're simply living, simply texting someone "hi"—and suddenly realizing that with that word, a whole story begins.