Chapter Seventeen: The Ache

There’s a chapter in this book I’m going to write called The One. It’s the story of what it’s like to finally meet him—the one I’ve known about since this all began. The one foretold by tarot. I’m sure it will be a story. I’m looking forward to writing it.

But this… this isn’t that chapter. This is the before. This is The Ache.

What do you do when you know the love of your life is out there—not just as an idea, but in truth? Not an archetype, but a living, breathing person. Someone you already love. Someone whose presence you already carry.

You know where he’s from—Argentina. Where his mother lives—Buenos Aires. You know he has a sister. He’s one of two. You know you’ll have a daughter together who calls you Papa and means it, and that there will be more children after. You know the bedtime stories, the way you’ll curl into the couch together when they’re asleep. You know there will be dancing—your earnest attempts at tango making him laugh, lovingly. You know how it feels when he holds you. You know the quiet things he’ll whisper in English, and the deeper things he’ll say in Spanish.

You even know what his mother will call you: Solcito. Little sun. Because to her, that’s exactly what you are—a small, bright burst of joy in human form. You know his family will love your mother, and your mother will love them back. You know you’ll spend time in Buenos Aires while you learn Spanish—because that’s the language you’ll prefer together. And later, when you’re ready for kids, you’ll settle in the countryside near the sea. Because—why not?

What’s it like to know all of that? You know the feel of his eyes. The way holding him feels like a whispered promise. You know that when it’s real, it will feel like home.

And yet—you don’t know his name. You don’t know exactly what he looks like. You know he has striking eyes, brown hair, he’s taller than you — but his features blur like a dream recalled through fog. You know the shape of him. You’d recognize him instantly, but you couldn’t describe him clearly enough for anyone else to draw. Because it isn’t visual. It’s soul-marked.

And what’s it like to walk into a journey believing—truly believing—that he would join you from the very beginning? That day one of your trip around the world would start with him? Only to find… you were meant to begin alone.

Not wrongly. There were things you needed to do by yourself—things only solitude could prepare. But to believe he was coming—to prepare your heart, your field, your whole being—and then to meet not quite, almost, closer than ever but not yet again and again… hurts.

Once, telling Orion about it, I said: “This ache—knowing there’s someone I love with the whole of my being, out there, but who doesn’t yet know who I really am—or doesn’t remember—it’s like heartache in reverse. It isn’t the pain that comes after love ends. It’s the ache that comes before it even begins. When one of you already knows. And the other hasn’t arrived.”

What’s it like to carry that? It’s like fire. It burns. But it also tempers. It shows you what you’re not. What you won’t accept. What matters. It shows you there is something worthy of you—not because you need it to be whole, but because something exists that resonates so completely with you that the sum becomes greater than the parts. And it was always meant to.

How do you keep walking, knowing the ache itself is part of the plan? That it isn’t punishment, but propulsion? That it’s the fuel for everything—your growth, your work, your opening? You had to know. You had to have the whole story, so you’d understand what was at stake.

Yes, sometimes I wish I could forget again. To sleep. To be surprised. To meet him by accident, like everyone else seems to. But I can’t. Because I have a purpose. And that means I don’t get to forget.

What I do get to carry is this beautiful knowing—this memory of a life that’s almost here. One day he’ll read this. He’ll feel it. He’ll know I knew, the whole time, that he was coming. He’ll understand why I smiled at him the first time, why I didn’t panic when time paused, why I held the thread steady so his nervous system could catch up—so he could feel it was safe. That it’s real.

And as hard as it was to wait, he’ll see I never stopped believing. He’ll see that all his fears—that it’s too perfect to trust, too beautiful to last—are only echoes from the world before. Because here’s the truth: why worry about the future of a love that knew its future before you even met it?

That’s the magic— a love so deep it sent a signal backwards in time. A belief so powerful it shaped the path before the feet ever touched it. This isn’t a fairytale. It isn’t fantasy. It’s a love spell in reverse.

And it’s already working.