But even if she doesn’t—
it doesn’t matter.
Because she was real.
In that fall.
In that November.
In that laugh,
when we drank coffee in the rain.
Memory can be dangerous.
It holds your hand tighter than any real person.
It doesn’t let you forget.
Doesn’t let you forgive.
But I have to.
Forgive myself—for falling.
Forgive her—for not understanding.
Forgive the world—for not always aligning with our wishes.
I know this now:
If you really look,
there is nothing to condemn.
If you don’t judge—
you love.
But the court of conscience doesn’t forget.
It’s the strictest one.
And it tells me:
“Nicole was just a girl. She wanted to be happy.
That’s all.”
I no longer wait for letters.
No longer search for her profile online.
I just live.
With this experience.
With this light.
With this lesson.
And you know what…
I’m still grateful.
Because love—
even without reciprocation—
is still light.
And light is never to blame
if you couldn’t hold on to it in time.
Chapter 5. Jeanne
If love has ever burned you,
you’ll be afraid of warmth.
Until you meet someone
whose warmth doesn’t scorch—
but heals.
Sometimes Kuwait thought:
if only he’d known,
if only he’d had time to think—
maybe Nicole would still be around.
But those were thoughts,
not feelings.
Habit—
not love.
And then she appeared.
Jeanne.
He first saw her in the campus café.
She was standing by the vending machine,
torn between cappuccino and hot chocolate.
She wore a bright yellow jacket,
jeans with patches,
and her hair—dyed a cool platinum blonde—was tousled
like the wind had styled it that morning.
The next day, her hair was green.
And somehow…
it felt right.
Her eyes were green too—
piercing, like spring leaves—
and they held all the raw honesty of life,
no filters.
She moved like a dancer,
or a runner.
Toned, graceful.
Long legs. Light steps. Warm skin.
When she touched your shoulder,
there was no flirting in it.
Just… naturalness.
And that made it feel even closer.
Jeanne was bold.
She laughed loudly.
Told stories so well
even the professors smiled.
"You know why I’m always late?
Because I’m part Karlsson-on-the-Roof, part Marilyn Monroe.
One eats jam, the other loses her heels.
I’m both."
She had the magic of being normal.
Not perfect.
But every day around her
felt real.
Alive.
At first, Kuwait held back.
He knew what feelings could do.
He knew how easy it was to mistake gratitude for love,