My early twenties were a blur of city lights, high heels, and late nights. Whether it was my city or someone else’s, I loved being out!..surrounded by happy strangers, laughter spilling out of bars, music vibrating through the floor.

I was usually an observer, people-watching from the sidelines, drink in hand, quietly soaking it all in. But give me just enough liquid courage, and suddenly I was part of the scene.

That night, after losing track of my friends, I saw him.

He stood a full head above the crowd…no, two! I’m 5’7”, and in six-inch heels, easily 6’1”. Still, he made me feel small. As we crossed paths, I blurted out before my brain could catch up:

“Wow, you’re tall.”

He turned, amused.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Did I just say that out loud? Yep. Too late now.

We talked for a few minutes about where we were from, what brought him to my city, and just when his friend came over to say they were leaving, he asked for my number.

Later that night, he texted me. The conversation was brief, but my 22-year-old self was intrigued. The next morning, before catching his flight home, he FaceTimed me. Different, I thought. Most guys played it cool, made you wait. But this one seemed intentional.

During our chat, he mentioned that I’d saved my full name in his phone (still a mystery why I did that). He sent his full name back and yes, of course, I Googled him.

That’s when I found out:
He was an NBA player.

My stomach dropped. What was he doing in my city? And what could he possibly want with me?

After that, silence. No calls, no texts. I moved on, assuming it was just one of those fleeting, movie-scene moments until a familiar notification lit up my phone weeks later:

“What’s up?”

That simple text sent my mind spiraling through every “what if.” We FaceTimed again, this time longer. He opened up about his childhood, his basketball career, his single life. But just like before, the pattern repeated — messages, then distance.

Eventually, I stopped waiting.

Dating in my twenties had its fun moments, but nothing serious stuck. When an opportunity came to move to Los Angeles, I took it! New city, new chapter. I told myself I’d have my first child by 25 (oh, how differently life would unfold).

Four months into my move, my phone lit up again.

“What’s up. I’ll be in your city.”

Except I wasn’t in my old city anymore.

When I told him I’d relocated, he called right away. We caught up like no time had passed. Before hanging up, I asked, “If you could be on any team right now, which one would it be?”

“The Los Angeles Lakers.”

A few months later, that dream became reality.

When he asked to meet downtown, I was nervous, excited, and maybe a little bit giddy. What do you even wear to meet someone who once lived rent-free in your head?

I went with a denim button-down tied at the waist, black high-waisted jeans, and my tallest heels. We met at a rooftop bar above his hotel, and conversation flowed easily like reconnecting with someone who already knew me.

When the night wound down, we wandered next door to a comedy open mic. We drank, laughed, and talked until closing time. Then he walked me to my car and gave me the kind of hug that felt like a beginning.

From that night on, we were rarely apart. If he was in town, we were together…concerts, dinners, late nights exploring Los Angeles. He became my calm after long workdays, and I became his piece of normal.

Then one week, I got sick. He was out of town, but called to check on me. I told him not to worry just medicine and soup.

Thirty minutes later:

“Buzz me in.”

When I opened the door, there he was, standing in front of me with a bag full of get-well goodies from the gym.

“How did you get here?”
“I walked.”

It was only a ten minute walk from his hotel, but somehow, that gesture meant everything.

Maybe this was what it felt like to be seen…really seen…for the first time.