July 2023 — She Came

July felt different even before it began. She told me, "I'm going to Canada". Honestly, it was a third happy moment, third surprising, and third dumbfounded. I knew we would meet again, but not this soon. Every day leading up to her arrival carried a kind of quiet electricity. She was coming to Canada, to me.

I still remember that night on 401, the sky a smear of indigo above the headlights, Chopin humming low, my thoughts already racing ahead to the terminal gates. I drove all the way to Montreal to pick her up, stopping once for tea that went cold before I could finish it. I spent a night in a beer smeared motel there, but I barely slept; my mind kept replaying the same frame, her walking through the sliding doors, suitcase behind her, smile catching the light.

And when she finally did, when I saw her stepping toward me with that half-nervous, half-excited grin, the noise of the airport dissolved. It felt as if every message, every call, every long evening of waiting had suddenly taken form. She was real, standing right there, and all I could think was: she’s finally here.

We drove back to Toronto, the road unspooling like a film reel through green fields and sleepy towns. I pointed out the tiny places that meant nothing except that I wanted her to know them. She fell asleep halfway, her head against the window, hair stirring in the wind that sneaked through the cracked glass. I slowed down just to stretch the moment, because even silence with her felt full.

In Toronto, we wandered through the city’s heart, City Hall, OCAD, U of T, the strange beauty of concrete and color stacked together. I took her to PAI, her first Thai restaurant, and she smiled after the first bite as if discovering a new world.

The next day, Niagara Falls. The roar swallowed every word, mist kissing our faces until we laughed like children. Then the calm of Niagara-on-the-Lake, where the streets smelled of wine and roses and time seemed to move at half speed.

The day after, we met her Spanish friend. We ate burgers and poutine in a park off Queen Street, grease and laughter mixing under the trees. That night, her favorite, Korean BBQ. I tried to look like I knew what I was doing with the grill while she teased me between mouthfuls of sizzling meat and neon light. On the drive back I detoured to Casa Loma. She jumped when a raccoon appeared beside her, then burst into laughter so contagious the gardens echoed with it. We sneaked onto the balcony, pretending we belonged there, fingers laced, the city glittering below us. For a moment it felt like the castle really was ours.

Friday night I’d planned to take her to Rebel, the biggest club in Toronto. It was closed, but disappointment didn’t stand a chance. We parked by the lake instead, cameras in hand, watching the skyline come alive. The CN Tower pulsed like a heartbeat over the water. The wind tangled her hair; her voice folded into the night. I didn’t mind the change of plans. The view, her beside me, was enough.

Later we found a small Asian club pulsing with reggaetón, almost like La Bamba, the night we first met. The bass shook the floor; lights painted our skin in gold and violet. For a heartbeat we were back there again, two people who hadn’t planned any of this, lost in rhythm and sweat and laughter. We danced until morning blurred into daylight and the world felt briefly perfect.

The next day she tried her first proper Canadian brunch, pancakes drowning in maple syrup. "This is so American", then kept eating with smears on her face. We wandered the Distillery District afterward, all brick lanes and vintage cafés. She photographed every cup of coffee, every old window.

Then came our glamping trip near Ottawa, at Round Lake. Peaceful, until the mosquitoes arrived. I fought them off with a BBQ tong in one hand in the other while she stood a safe distance away, laughing so hard she could barely film. Her laughter made the whole scene worth it. That night we sat and talked, stars crowding the sky, and I remember thinking that happiness might just be the sound of her breathing beside me.

Ottawa came next. The city itself didn’t offer much, but the Nordic Spa on the border between Ontario and Quebec felt like another world, steam rising between pines, the scent of cedar, our conversation drifting into the rhythm of the pools. We didn’t need to speak. Quiet fit us perfectly.

Then back to Montreal. We devoured smoked-meat sandwiches at Schwartz’s, wandered through Notre-Dame and Vieux Montréal, climbed Parc du Mont-Royal, and ended at Saint Joseph’s Basilica, its bells carrying across the dusk. That night we tucked into a corner table at Upstairs Jazz, my favorite spot, and afterward stood at the Mount Royal lookout, city lights like scattered silver below us. It felt like the closing scene of a movie that refused to fade to black.

Morning came too soon. We had brunch in Vieux Montréal, and when the waitress greeted us in French we froze, two idiots smiling at each other until she switched to English. We laughed until people stared. Later we found a small beach outside the city, the kind of place only locals know. The air smelled of sunscreen and calm. We lay on the sand, saying almost nothing because words might have broken the spell.

That evening, one last Korean BBQ, her farewell dinner before the flight. The glow of the grill flickered in her eyes; she looked at me across the smoke with that half-smile I already missed. The quiet between us was gentle but heavy. Oh, and of course, the stupid parking ticket because we got there a minute late.

At the airport, everything felt too bright. I don’t know what came over me, maybe the fear that I’d let the moment slip unspoken, but as we waited for time to diminish for her flight in anxiousness sitting on a bench near the gate, I said it.

“I love you.”

She froze. Surprise first, then confusion. “Are you serious?” she asked, half-stunned, half-searching.

I looked at her back, though my chest tightened. I had been so sure, every laugh, every glance, every small gesture had felt like proof. But suddenly the air thickened, and time slowed to a painful crawl. She looked at me one last time, eyes full of questions neither of us knew how to answer, and then she walked through the gate.

I stayed there long after she disappeared into the crowd. Montreal Airport felt colder, the echo of her footsteps louder than the engines. The drive back to Toronto stretched forever. Her perfume still lingered in the car, a ghost of her beside me. I kept the window cracked, maybe hoping the wind would carry her voice back.

July ended there for me, not with fireworks or closure, but with the soft ache of a door closing behind someone you’re not ready to lose. Yet even then, I knew it wasn’t an ending. It was something else: the beginning of missing her. Of late-night calls, of shared music and private jokes, of soon.

It was the month she came, and the month I finally understood what it means to love someone in the present tense.