BELIEVE AGAIN.

I don’t usually start my pieces like this, but stay with me for a second.

There’s a version of this that probably opens in the rolling hills of Ssembabule. Cinematic. Soft lighting. A calm voice whispering my name, “Derick.”

I could paint the sunrise spilling across the fields, the wind teasing at my shirt, the kind of scene that makes you feel like life owes you a story.

But that’s just boringggggg. And it’s not me.

You see, when something is real to me, I don’t narrate it. I don’t dress it up. I don’t turn it into some poetic performance hoping it lands a standing ovation. I talk. I wander. I admit things I wasn’t planning to admit.

Let me do that instead.

So, hey, babe.

How are you?

I know you’re probably rolling your eyes already. Or smiling. Or pretending you’re not missing me. But let me live in my delusion for a minute. It’s harmless. Mostly.

This is me talking to you the way I know how to talk best. No metaphors, no poetic tendencies. No long dramatic pauses. Just me, sitting with my thoughts, thinking about you again. Which is ironic, because at some point, I was convinced I was done with all of this.

The butterflies.

The awkward silences.

The stupid smiles that show up uninvited.

I boxed those things up neatly and told myself they were for naive people. I was supposed to be better than that. Older. Wiser. Chill. The kind of guy who replies late on purpose. Who pretends he’s busy when he’s actually just staring at his phone, rereading the same message like it’s a sacred text and sometimes replaying that voice note like it’s a B’raka song.

Yeah. That guy didn’t last long, did he!

Because you didn’t arrive with fireworks or announcements. You didn’t knock down my walls dramatically. You just… showed up. Quietly. Consistently. And I can’t even pinpoint the exact moment things shifted. I’ve tried. Trust me.

One day you weren’t there.

The next day you were everywhere.

In my head.

In my thoughts.

Rearranging furniture you didn’t pay for.

And the scariest part?

I let you.

Not because you forced your way in, but because something in me didn’t want to lock the door. That’s the unsettling part – not you, but my willingness. I’ve been here before. I know how this movie sometimes ends. I know this soundtrack by heart. I know that quiet moment when the energy changes and nobody says it out loud, but everyone feels it.

I know how heartbreak sounds in modern language.

“I just need space.”

“You deserve better.”

“It’s not you.”

So yeah, I’m cautious.

Only that this time around, I’m not running.

And that’s new. Alarmingly new for someone like me.

You should probably know this about me by now, I joke when something matters. If I’m teasing, I care. If I’m laughing too hard at things that aren’t even funny, I’m invested. And if I go quiet… sometimes I’m just fighting myself. That happens too.

Though with you, I’ve been loud. Too loud. Laughing at anything and everything. Replaying moments in my head like I missed something important the first time. Catching myself mid-blush and thinking, what the hell is wrong with me? I don’t even smile this much at comedy shows.

So, whatever spell you put me under? Yeah, I like it. And if it’s juju, please inform my mother that I don’t need rescuing. I am okay where I am.

Then there’s the way you listen.

Not the polite listening. Not the “uh-huh, mm-hmm” background-noise kind. The real kind. The kind that makes a man say things he didn’t plan to say. I’ve paused mid-sentence with you before, wondering why I was sharing something so personal, only to answer myself immediately.

Oh!

Because it’s her.

That realization hit harder than I expected. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. The good kind. The kind you smile about even when you know it might cost you something later.

What gets me most is how easy it feels. Which is wild, because ease is not my brand. I overthink everything. Tone. Timing. Punctuation. But with you, sometimes I forget to do all that. Sometimes I just exist.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe that’s what this is.

I like you, Tushemereirwe. I like you a lot. I like how ordinary moments with you feel like memories in the making. Like those mornings when you hear my voice and suddenly forget how words work. I like that you don’t perform. You don’t try too hard. You’re just… you.

You make me want to be intentional. And that’s dangerous territory for someone like me, because intention means choice. Choice means risk. And risk means possibly looking stupid – which I hate. Yet here I am, writing this without hiding behind poetry or clever wording. Just saying it plainly.

You matter to me.

Right now.

In the present tense.

I don’t know where this goes. I’m not pretending I do. I’m not promising forever, or next year, or even next month. What I am promising is loyalty. Attention. Effort that doesn’t feel forced. I’m promising that when I say I miss you, I mean it. When I check in, it’s because I want to know. When I show up, it’s intentional.

I’m also promising that I’ll joke about serious things. That I’ll deflect sometimes. That I’ll need patience. Because I’m human. And I’m dramatic. Extremely dramatic. And occasionally afraid of how deeply I feel.

But if I’m being honest?

I want to believe again.

Not in a fairytale, not in the “love conquers all” Instagram-caption kind of way. I want to believe that something good can be simple. That liking someone doesn’t have to come with anxiety as a bonus. That opening up doesn’t automatically mean losing yourself. I want to believe in love again.

And you? You make that belief feel reasonable. Which is rare for me.

So that’s where I’m at.

No hills.

No winds.

No spilling sunlight.

Just me, telling you directly: you’re doing something to me. And I don’t hate it. Actually… I kind of love it.

And if you ever catch me starting a sentence with, “In the rolling hills of…” please interrupt me. Remind me I don’t need all that. That I can just say your name, Meron, and mean it.

Because this?

This is how I write when it’s real.

With love,

Derick