I've always believed the universe has a wicked sense of humor.
Like how it makes you meet someone while you're looking like a sleep-deprived potato with coffee stains on your hoodie and a to-do list the length of your ancestors' dreams.
That's exactly what happened to me.
And no, I'm not romanticising it. I really was a mess.
It was a Friday. Not the elegant kind of Friday with a crisp latte and matching socks, but the kind that makes you question all your life choices, with deadlines and all breathing down your throat. I was at the local bookstore café, trying to revive my soul with a triple-shot espresso and pretending I wasn't hiding from adulthood in the "Self-Help" section.
That's when he crashed into me.
Literally.
He had a stack of books, a ridiculously large scarf (what is it with men and oversized scarves?), and a cinnamon roll so ambitious it required two hands. One wrong step and BAM, we collided like two awkward comets.
Books flew. Coffee sloshed. The cinnamon roll landed on my laptop.
And he just stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, looking like he'd personally offended the gods of pastry.
"I... I think I just destroyed your entire career," he blurted.
I blinked. Looked at the cinnamon-coated screen. Looked back at him.
And then I laughed, with tears rolling down my cheeks. The kind you don't plan. The kind that just bursts out when the universe serves you chaos on a sugar-dusted platter. It felt like a dam broke. "You may have just did" I said amidst the tears.
He looked at me and burst into laughter too. A nervous, boyish, and absolutely adorable laughter.
"I'm Noah," he said, handing me a slightly crumpled napkin like it was a peace offering from his people.
"I'm... sticky... and my editor is probably going to kill me." I replied.
And just like that, the world tilted a little.
He asked me what I was working on and how he could possibly help.
Long story short, we spent the next 6 or 8 hours working on my write-up, But who's counting.
Now, here's the thing about Noah: he wasn't just charming, he was unintentionally a heart stealer.
The type who says weird things at exactly the right time.
The kind who has an entire playlist for "crying but in a hopeful way."
The kind who names his houseplants and says goodnight to them (I later met Harold, the fiddle leaf fig who disapproves of jazz).
We started running into each other. Not on purpose... at first (or so he thought.)
Bookstore. Coffee shop. Farmers' market (where he debated a seven-year-old over which apples were superior. Honeycrisp won, obviously).
And somewhere between spontaneous cinnamon disasters and shared playlists, we started finding reasons to "accidentally" bump into each other.
He'd save me the last chocolate croissant. I'd sneak his favorite sticky notes into his backpack (the ones shaped like clouds, don't judge). We became our own little tradition.
No grand gestures. Just cozy chaos.
Then came the day he invited me to a "non-date."
"It's not a date," he said, wearing that scarf again. "It's a spontaneous celebration of Friday."
I showed up in the most not-a-date dress I owned, floral, floaty, and criminally flattering. He greeted me with two milkshakes and a grin that made my knees file a complaint with my brain.
We went to a street fair. We ate things we couldn't pronounce. He won me a plush avocado in a ring toss (his technique: pure luck and enthusiastic shouting). We slow-danced with strangers to a live band covering 80s love songs.
At one point, under twinkly lights and neon signs, he looked at me and said, "Do you think some people are just... meant to find each other?"
My heart did a somersault, a cartwheel, and then called an ambulance.
"Like soulmates?" I asked.
"No," he said, "not that heavy. More like... joy-mates. You're just my favorite kind of happy."
I wanted to say something clever. Something poetic.
But all I managed was, "You're kind of my favorite accident."
And that was it.
The softest, loudest moment of all.
No grand declaration. No swelling music.
Just a cinnamon-ruined laptop, too many shared croissants, and two people standing still while the world spun sweetly around them.
Fast forward.
It's a year later.
There's still coffee on my laptop, but now it's our inside joke.
There are still books stacked haphazardly around our apartment, half-read and lovingly annotated.
Harold the plant is still disapproving, but now I talk to him too.
Some nights, we make pancakes for dinner just because.
He dances like an inflatable tube man, I laugh until I can't breathe.
We still go to that bookstore café. Still bump into each other on purpose.
Love came to us in the least curated way possible.
No filters. No perfect timing. No slow-motion soundtrack.
Just real moments.
Sticky, silly, soul-nourishing moments.
Here's what I know now:
Happy endings don't always ride in on white horses.
Sometimes, they walk in holding cinnamon rolls and a terrible scarf.
Sometimes, they laugh at your worst joke.
Sometimes, they don't even call it a date, they just call it Friday.
But you'll know.
You'll feel it in your gut.
In that warm, fizzy, fizzy feeling in your chest that screams, "This. This is safe. This is good. This is mine."
Final Thought:
The world's heavy enough.
Let yourself love lightly.
Be open to the kind of joy that doesn't need a reason.
Let the universe ship you with someone who brings sunshine to your grey days, even if they're a walking disaster with a fondness for scarves.
Because at the end of it all, giddy love?
It's worth every ruined laptop. (Even though you're left at the mercy of your Editor)