It hasn’t been one year since I learned that he loved me. He loved me, I know it. I loved him, too. We loved each other, silently. Because he never told me so (or not straightforwardly, that is), but he showed it. I never told him, nor showed him. So until now, he had no idea how much I loved him. We loved each other. Loved, yes, because it is all in the past. And now there’s no “we” anymore. There was no “we” at all, in the first place. But it’s OK, because none of it matters anymore. I’m with a guy, and the bicycle man is now happy with his wife, and a baby that is almost about to be born. One thing, though: I hope one day he tells his daughter that he once loved a girl almost half his age, who didn’t love him back (because that’s what he thought), but that he still believed in love. And I hope his daughter becomes unafraid to love, not like the girl his father once loved.