If love had a sound, I swear I heard it the night I met her.
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It was the sound of laughter carried by the ocean breeze, the clink of wine glasses somewhere behind me, and the faint notes of a saxophone weaving through the night air. I was standing on the edge of the pier in Nungwi, Zanzibar, watching lanterns drift across the water like lost stars.
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I wasn’t looking for anyone. In fact, I had spent years convincing myself I didn’t need anyone. Love was chaos, and I had had my share of storms. My business consumed most of my days in Dar es Salaam, and my nights were too quiet to welcome anyone in.
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Then she walked in.
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She wasn’t supposed to be there. Her dress was the color of midnight, flowing in the wind, her hair catching the silver of the moonlight. She looked around as if searching for someone. Then her eyes found mine—and held them, like they had been waiting all this time.
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I remember telling myself to look away. I didn’t.
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That was the first mistake.
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Her name was Ariana. And from that night on, my life was no longer mine alone. It was hers too.
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