3 summers ago

It was three summers ago in New York. I was working a summer internship for a publishing company on the West Side. The miserable heat had condensed into thick, humid clouds, and every morning, to get to work, I would swim through them with dread and distaste. New York was my adopted hometown, and I had seen her in every light, including these humid summer days, but I had naively underestimated the intensity of New York humidity and thus I thought that renting an apartment a ten-minute walk from work would not only be convenient but also a smart way to get in some extra steps. Therefore, I was located to close to the office to warrant taking a taxi and the subway was not an option, thus I was forced to walk.

Unforchuantly, ten minutes is exactly how long it takes to completely melt in the New York heat. By the time I got to work each morning, I was a pool of sweat and disoriented haste. That morning was like every other. I woke up, started the coffee, got dressed, poured the coffee, washed my face, and then drank my coffee. At 7:45 sharp, whether I was done with my coffee or not, I would slip on my heels, scramble for my wallet and keys, and finally tumble out the door.

It was a beautiful day to look at from one’s window, but not quite so wondrous to be moving in. The more I walked, the more the exposed patches of my skin gleamed with beads of sweat exuding from my pores. It mixed with the Prada scent I had on, and together they fused to create the aroma of a frazzled young woman, which, to be fair, I absolutely appeared to be. For as put-together as a girl could be, she was no match for the New York sun. After spending three weeks in this sauna of a city, I had begun to let go of anything that could melt. I had forgone makeup and gave up on slicking back my hair with gels. I just threw it up in a French twist and hoped for the best.

As I arrived at the office that day, after my ten minutes of hell, I was, as always, grateful to be greeted by the intense artificial cold of the air conditioning. I offered the doorman a polite smile while, as quickly and gracefully as humanly possible, I made my way across the lobby to the elevator. Just as I was about to push the button, a large, tan finger, clearly belonging to a man of stronger build, swiftly beat me to it. I couldn’t help it; I turned around to face the owner of the mysterious button-pushing hand, and to my surprise, I was met with an incredibly attractive man.

He was smiling at me in a polite, charismatic manner—one that, while common, felt uniquely his. He smiled with his whole face, even his eyes, and it made him so effortlessly gorgeous that you couldn’t help but stare in amazement. Thankfully, I wasn’t a total idiot. I stammered out a curt “Thanks” and plastered a far less majestic smile on my face so as not to appear rude. He nodded, still grinning, and replied with a simple hum. He remained behind me while we waited in silence for a minute or two.

As captivating as he was, my mind was elsewhere. I thought about what I needed to do before lunch, what I would eat for lunch, and whether I should eat out tonight or go grocery shopping. When the elevator opened, I stepped into the corner and pivoted around just in time to watch him enter. As I did so, it suddenly became clear that the phrase “out of sight, out of mind” was entirely accurate. My brain went quiet as I admired the figure now standing slightly in front of me.

My concentration was interrupted when he asked, “Which floor?”

“Oh, uh, 7th, please,” I replied.

He pressed the button with a gold 7 etched into it and turned to me with a puzzled look on his face, as if he were already trying to answer the question he was no doubt about to ask.

“Is there any chance you’re the new intern?”

I blinked, stunned for a split second that he knew who I was. Then the air rushed back into my lungs, and I pulled it together just in time to retort, “Lucky guess?” in a tone that made me appear far more composed than I actually was.

Now that I was looking at him in a more relaxed moment, I could clearly see he wasn’t quite a man yet. He looked closer to my age: around 18 or 19, definitely still in college. However, without studying his face, his silhouette and aura could easily mislead someone into thinking he was at least 25.

Before he responded, he shifted toward the back of the elevator, leaned his head against the wall, and craned his neck slightly to watch the panel flash the passing floor numbers. Then he smiled, shook his head, and looked in my direction, only moving his head to face me, and said sweetly:

“Well, yes and no. I’m also an intern, starting today, and you’re supposed to be my mentor for the week.”

It was captivating how natural and genuine he was. He didn’t behave like someone who knew how attractive he was, nor did he try to be. He was just genuinely beautiful.

“That’s strange. They didn’t tell me a thing,” I said with a light tone and a careless smile.

“Ouch. Maybe they kept you out of the loop because they're making arrangements to replace you with a new and improved intern.”

“Oh really? And who might that be then?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Me. Mathew Jones,” he smiled, extended his right hand across his body, and leaned closer to shake mine.

“Lena Parsamyan,” I replied, taking his hand in mine. It was a brief moment, but as we pulled away and returned to our original positions, something in me sank with disappointment. I hardly knew the guy, and yet I already felt I needed to be close to him, as close as the blood in his veins.

Just then, the elevator opened. He raised his arm to gesture for me to step out first, so I did. I walked through the office, weaving my way through rows of cubicles until I reached mine. I didn’t bother to check my shoulder to see where he had gone; I figured that would be a rather pathetic thing to do.

My cubicle was close to a window, but it was tinted, so the light always had a blue hue, making all hours of the day look the same. Until it got dark, you had no idea what time it was—unless you checked your phone. The second I sat down, my mind, almost as if under a spell, went straight back to the interaction I’d had with Mathew. I smiled in amazement, thinking about how weirdly necessary it felt to be in his presence.

It was like something clicked in my brain when we met. When we talked, there was a sudden shift in the atmosphere. I couldn’t describe it—it just felt so right. Is this what love at first sight feels like? Had love kicked down my door and stormed in to announce that a match had been made?

My heart and my head had somehow aligned, and a feeling of unadulterated happiness took over me. All I wanted in that moment was to see him again, talk with him again—I couldn’t keep him off my mind. All day, as I proofread papers and sorted through files, my thoughts kept running back to him at every second it was unoccupied

I had a gut feeling he was supposed to be in my future. Maybe it was delusion, but the more I thought about him, the more I believed it, wholeheartedly. The idea of working with him all summer felt too good to be true. But I knew that something was to come of it, for I couldn’t let someone that amazing walk into my life and then just walk out again. That day, I silently declared that we would fall in love and live happily ever after. As naive as it sounded, no other thought had ever made me happier.

That day, I met the one. Not because he was this picture-perfect, he didn’t check all my boxes, as I’d later learn, but because there was just something about him that once I had tasted, I quickly realized I couldn’t live without

Fast forward to the present: Mathew and I are engaged. I couldn’t be happier. I feel like the luckiest person alive to have met someone I not only love deeply but also admire endlessly: someone who has loved and cared for me in ways I never even knew I needed. Life is funny like that. Four summers ago, I didn't believe in love: I was too practical for it, but now, I can't imagine spending another summer without him.