Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

Raise your hand if you’ve ever been minding your own business, folding laundry or standing in the supermarket trying to decide whether you really need another iced coffee, when suddenly your brain goes:

“Remember that guy you met on holiday eight years ago?”

Excuse me?

I don’t remember where I left my sunglasses ten minutes ago, but apparently my brain has decided to preserve every detail about a man named Luca who smiled at me once while ordering gelato.

Really, our brains are ridiculous… and I KNOW we’ve all done it. The holiday crush. The summer fling. The person you barely knew but somehow never completely forgot.

And here’s the strange part. It usually isn’t the love of your life. Sometimes you never even kissed. Sometimes you only had three conversations. Sometimes all you exchanged was terrible flirting and a promise to “keep in touch,” which, let’s be honest, lasted about twelve days.

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So why do they stick around?

The answer isn’t actually romance. It’s unfinished possibility.

Our brains absolutely adore unfinished stories. Psychologists even have a name for it. We remember incomplete experiences more vividly than completed ones because our minds keep trying to solve them.

What if I’d stayed one more day?

What if I’d texted first?

What if we’d lived in the same city?

What if… That tiny word has ruined more peaceful showers than almost anything else. The funny thing is that we’re rarely missing the actual person. We’re missing the version of ourselves that existed around them.

Summer does something strange to us. We stay up later. We laugh more easily. We eat ice cream before dinner and somehow convince ourselves that’s balanced nutrition because fruit was technically involved.

Life feels lighter. We’re more spontaneous. We’re outside more. We’re less buried under deadlines, emails and the never-ending list of things adults are apparently supposed to remember.

So when we meet someone during that version of ourselves, our brain quietly links the two together.

Years later, we think we’re missing them. Often, we’re actually missing that feeling. Freedom. Possibility. The version of ourselves who believed anything could happen.

It’s why a random song can transport you back to one evening on a beach. Or why the smell of sunscreen suddenly feels emotional. Memory doesn’t store events like a filing cabinet. It stores emotions. The strongest ones become bookmarks.

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Now here’s the part nobody talks about. Sometimes we don’t actually want that person back. Imagine they knocked on your door tomorrow. Would you genuinely want to date them?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Because over the years, your imagination has quietly filled in all the blank spaces. They’ve become kinder. Funnier. Better dressed. Probably better at texting. In your memories, they never forgot your birthday, left dishes in the sink or disappeared into fantasy football every Sunday.

Real people have annoying habits.

Memory edits them out.

It’s basically your brain’s director’s cut. This is also why romance novels feel so comforting. They let us revisit possibility. That delicious stage where anything could happen. The almost-kiss. The accidental touch. The stolen glance. The butterflies. It’s not that we’re obsessed with unrealistic love.

We’re obsessed with hope.

Hope is addictive.

And honestly, in the middle of work deadlines, laundry mountains and wondering whether we can get away with cereal for dinner again, hope is a lovely thing to borrow for a few hours.

So if someone from years ago still pops into your head every now and then, don’t panic. It doesn’t necessarily mean you made the wrong choice. It doesn’t mean you’re secretly in love with them.

It simply means your brain attached a beautiful feeling to a beautiful moment.

That’s allowed. Just don’t mistake nostalgia for destiny. One reminds you where you’ve been. The other decides where you’re going.

And personally?

I’ll take the future.

Preferably one that still includes ice cream, spontaneous picnics and someone who remembers the snacks without being asked.

Because those tiny moments?

Those are usually the beginning of the best love stories.

Speaking of picnics… while writing Confessions of a Curvy Heart, I found myself thinking about this exact feeling. Not the dramatic declarations or movie-worthy kisses, but the quiet moments that sneak up on you. Sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it arrives with a blanket on the grass, a slightly squashed homemade dessert, and the realization that you’re smiling before you’ve even noticed why.

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Love this book? You can grab it directly from my website or through my Amazon author page. When you purchase from my website, a larger portion of the sale goes directly to supporting my writing, allowing me to create more stories, mental health resources, and magical guides without relying on algorithms or advertising. You’ll also find exclusive bonuses, free reader gifts, and occasional special offers that aren’t always available elsewhere. If Amazon is your preferred bookstore, that’s perfectly fine too. Either way, thank you for supporting an independent author who spends an unreasonable amount of time talking to fictional people and turning it into books.