KANZIKWERA'S DIARY (extracted from chapter twenty) by Davis Owomugisha.

       KANZIKWERA'S DIARY.

By Davis Owomugisha 

Extracted from chapter twenty

Tales from Bishop Stuart College: Love, Laughter, and Life Lessons

................... At Bishop Stuart College, stepping through the grand gates for the first time was like diving into a storybook world full of plot twists, quirky characters, and a touch of melodrama. As freshers, we were quickly sorted into our respective houses – Balya, Apollo, Crowther, and Nightingale – each with its own colorful history and equally colorful residents. The real fun began when we were assigned our year two "elders," who were supposed to guide us but usually ended up treating us like their personal minions. 

Every day was a fresh episode of "Survivor: College Edition." Chores? We did them all – sweeping, cleaning, even fetching water. We joked that we were earning a degree in manual labor. The year two students watched us with a mix of amusement and benevolence, throwing us the occasional crumb of sympathy like, “You’ll get your turn next year, don’t worry.”

But the crown jewel of Bishop Stuart’s eccentric traditions was “okugondama.” Imagine a bizarre social experiment where boys tested their courage by professing their love to girls, often in the most theatrical ways possible. Opting out of this spectacle was unthinkable; you were either a player or a social outcast.

One crisp morning, as I walked to class, I spotted her – a vision of beauty that made my heart do somersaults. Just as I was mustering the courage to approach her, my rival appeared. He wasn't another student but the enemy of every schoolboy’s romantic ambitions: the tutor. Within days, he had won her over with his worldly charm and, let's face it, a more impressive allowance. My first crush was crushed. 

The Love Triangle of Year One

In the bustling corridors, there was a boy everyone fondly called "Year One." His real name was lost to time, overshadowed by his role as the year one councillor. Year One was a peculiar lad, always in the thick of things, particularly when it came to observing budding romances.

One bright afternoon, as the sun cast playful shadows on the netball court, I found myself at the center of Year One's attention. My first-year admirer, Becky, was there, her eyes twinkling as she played netball. Becky was a star, darting around with the grace of a gazelle and the determination of a lioness.

"Hey, Davis!" Year One's voice rang out as he jogged over to me, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. "You're watching Becky again, aren't you?"

I chuckled, "Of course, Year One. She's amazing at netball."

Year One nudged me with his elbow. "You know, Tutor Tony is watching her too."

Tutor Tony, the games tutor, was attached to Nightingale House, just like Becky. It was a twist of fate, or perhaps misfortune, that the tutor took a keen interest in the same girl who had captured my heart.

"You and Tony, huh? This is going to be interesting," Year One said with a wink. "He thinks he has the upper hand because they come from the same district."

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "We'll see about that."

Later that day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the school grounds, I found myself heading towards Nightingale House. Year One was at my side, eager to witness the unfolding drama.

"Tony's around," Year One whispered. "He's probably practicing his moves on Becky right now."

Sure enough, as we approached, we could hear Tony's booming voice. "Becky, that was a fantastic shot! You've got real potential."

Becky giggled, her laughter like music to my ears. "Thank you, Mr. Tony."

Year One nudged me again. "Time for some action, Davis."

Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward. "Hey, Becky! Great game today."

Becky turned, her eyes lighting up. "Thanks, Davis!"

Tony's eyes narrowed slightly as he sized me up. "So, Davis, you play any sports?"

I smiled, trying to keep my cool. "Not as well as Becky, but I do alright."

Year One, never one to miss an opportunity, jumped in. "Davis here is a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. He can sing, write, and even play a mean game of chess."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Chess, huh? Not quite the same as netball, is it?"

"Maybe not," I replied, "but it's all about strategy. Just like winning a game, or... winning someone's heart."

Becky's cheeks turned a shade of pink as she stifled a giggle. Tony, however, was not amused.

"Alright, alright," Tony said, waving his hands. "Let's see what you've got, Davis. How about a little friendly competition?"

Year One's eyes sparkled with excitement. "This is going to be epic!"

The next day, the whole school was buzzing with anticipation. Year One had spread the word about the upcoming "showdown" between me and Tony. The netball court was packed, students eagerly awaiting the spectacle.

Tony strutted onto the court, confident as ever. "Alright, Davis. Let's see if you can keep up."

Year One, acting as the unofficial referee, blew a whistle he had somehow procured. "And let the games begin!"

We started with a netball shootout. Tony was in his element, effortlessly sinking shot after shot. I, on the other hand, was struggling to keep up. The crowd was loving it, laughter and cheers echoing around us.

"Come on, Davis!" Year One shouted. "You've got this!"

Finally, it was my turn. I took a deep breath, focused on the hoop, and... missed. The crowd erupted in laughter. Tony smirked, basking in his victory.

But Year One wasn't done yet. "Time for the chess match!"

Tony looked puzzled. "Chess? Here?"

Year One grinned. "Why not? It's all about strategy, right?"

As we set up a makeshift chessboard on the sidelines, the crowd gathered around, curious and amused. Becky stood nearby, her eyes full of encouragement.

Tony was surprisingly good, but chess was my game. Move by move, I started to gain the upper hand. The crowd watched in silence, the tension palpable.

Year One leaned in, whispering to the onlookers. "Watch this. Davis is about to pull off a killer move."

And he was right. With a final, decisive move, I checkmated Tony. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Becky beamed with pride.

Tony, gracious in defeat, extended his hand. "Well played, Davis. Looks like you've got some moves after all."

Year One, ever the instigator, clapped Tony on the back. "See, it's not all about netball, Tony. Sometimes, brains beat brawn."

The showdown brought us all closer. Tony and I developed a mutual respect, and Becky and I shared many more laughs. Year One, of course, remained at the center of it all, always ready with a mischievous grin and a cheeky comment.

And so, in the halls of Bishop Stuart College Kibingo, the legend of the love triangle, the showdown, and the unforgettable Year One lived on, bringing smiles and laughter to everyone who heard it.

Undeterred, I channeled my energy into politics. "Why not run for Guild President?" I thought, imagining myself making fiery speeches and leading the charge for change. But the universe had other plans. My candidacy was abruptly rejected by the tutor in charge of elections. No explanation, just a curt dismissal. 

“What do you mean I’m not on the list?” I confronted the tutor.

“Your name’s not there. End of story,” he replied with a smirk.

“But why? I’m the most qualified candidate!” I protested.

“It’s not personal. It’s just... no,” he said, leaving me more confused than ever.

The students were ready to riot. "We want Davis!" they chanted. I had to pull off some serious diplomatic maneuvers to calm them down. Despite the setback, I ended up as Guild Speaker. Not a bad consolation prize.

There was one girl who remained an enigma to me: Immaculate. I’d often see her laughing with Drake, a guy with a perpetual swagger. I admired her from afar, too petrified to confess my feelings. Every time I tried, my tongue tied itself into a knot.

“Hey, Immaculate,” I’d rehearse in front of the mirror. “I was wondering if... I mean, would you... maybe... never mind.”

Immaculate  was as nice-looking as they come, with humility that shone brighter than a full moon on a clear night. Immaculate was always on point, her uniform spotless, and her hair perfectly braided. She moved through the school corridors with an air of grace, like she was gliding rather than walking.

One of our classmates, a boy named Drake, was always by her side. He followed her around like a puppy, claiming she was his. We watched this unfold with a mix of amusement and curiosity, suspecting there might be more to the story.

One day, during lunch break, I decided to get to the bottom of it. I found Drake sitting alone, staring dreamily at Immaculate from across the cafeteria.

"Drake, my man," I said, plopping down beside him. "What's the deal with you and Immaculate? Are you two an item or what?"

Drake blushed and stammered, "Well, you know... I mean, she's my girl."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? And have you told her that?"

Drake's face turned an even deeper shade of red. "Uh, well, not exactly. But she knows. I mean, it's obvious, right?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Drake, my friend, that's not how it works. You have to actually tell her."

Meanwhile, Immaculate continued to be her usual composed self. She never joked around and had a laser-like focus on her studies. Messing around wasn't in her vocabulary.

Immaculate had a close friend, Sharon, who everyone nicknamed Madam Speaker due to her eloquent way of expressing herself. Sharon had caught the eye of the Second Year Guild Speaker, a charming fellow named Rogers. Rogers was relentless in his pursuit, writing her notes, buying her gifts, and serenading her with off-key renditions of popular love songs.

One afternoon, I was hanging out by the school garden when I overheard a conversation that made me chuckle.

"Immaculate," Rogers said, puffing out his chest. "Tell Sharon that I've written her a poem. It's in iambic pentameter. She'll love it."

Immaculate looked at him with a mix of pity and amusement. "Rogers, I think Sharon appreciates your efforts, but maybe you should try a different approach. Like, I don't know, talking to her?"

As for me, I admired Immaculate from a distance. Her kindness, her diligence, her no-nonsense attitude—they were all qualities I deeply respected. But I never mustered the courage to tell her how I felt. Instead, I watched as Drake continued his silent, unspoken courtship, and Rogers tried to woo Madam Speaker with his poetry.

One day, I bumped into Immaculate in the library. She was engrossed in a book, as usual. I gathered my courage and struck up a conversation.

"Hey, Immaculate," I said, trying to sound casual. "What are you reading?"

She looked up and smiled. "It's a novel about a girl who travels through time. It's fascinating."

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. "Sounds interesting. You always pick the best books."

She chuckled. "Thanks. I just love stories that take me to different worlds."

In that moment, I realized that even if I never told her how I felt, just being able to share a moment with her was enough.

As the years went by, we all moved on to different things. Drake eventually found the courage to confess his feelings to Immaculate, and to everyone's surprise, she gently let him down, explaining that she was focused on her studies. Rogers, on the other hand, never stopped trying to impress Sharon, and eventually, his persistence paid off.

And me? I continued to admire Immaculate from afar, content with the memories of our brief interactions. Sometimes, the best stories are the ones that remain untold, cherished in the quiet corners of our hearts.

In my second year, fortune finally smiled on me. I met a girl who was nothing short of enchanting—stunning, smart, and brimming with life. Her name was not just a part of my daily routine; it was the sunshine that brightened every corner of my world. We became inseparable, and our relationship felt like it had stepped straight out of a romantic comedy.

Our rendezvous were marked by her enthusiastic presence at school practices. Imagine this: there I was, sweating it out in the sun during soccer drills, when suddenly she would appear, turning a grueling practice into a delightful encounter. Her laughter, contagious as ever, would echo through the field, making even the most mundane exercises feel like a scene from a feel-good movie.

One day, the plot took an unexpected turn. She fell ill and ended up in the college sick bay. The moment I heard about it, I transformed into the most devoted boyfriend ever seen on campus. Picture this: me, armed with nothing but a worried expression and an assortment of get-well-soon cards, rushing to her side. 

I plopped myself down beside her bed, trying to mask my concern with a brave face. “Hey, how are you feeling?” I asked, squeezing her hand gently.

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” she groaned, barely managing a smile.

“Well, you look... okay, you don’t look great, but you’ll be fine,” I said, attempting to sound reassuring. I could almost hear myself echoing the wisdom of a dubious medical expert.

She chuckled weakly. “Thanks for the pep talk, Dr. Davis. Next time I’ll need a specialist, not a motivational speaker.”

My daily visits turned me into something of a campus legend. My friends began to refer to me as the “Most Devoted Boyfriend,” and I couldn’t help but bask in the glory. Every day, I was there with fresh flowers and cheesy jokes, determined to brighten her spirits. I even started taking notes on what to say and do, hoping to become the ultimate boyfriend.

But life at Bishop Stuart was never without its comedic twists. One particularly memorable day, my friend Zinanda decided to serenade his crush. Now, Zinanda was a good guy, but his singing... let’s just say his voice was a unique gift that only his mother could genuinely appreciate. Armed with a guitar that looked like it had seen better days and a songbook filled with off-key lyrics, he set up under her window. The serenade began with the kind of off-key rendition that would make anyone question their musical choices. 

“*I’m a-believin’…*” he crooned, strumming with all the enthusiasm of a caffeine-fueled squirrel. 

His crush peeked out of her window, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and pity. “Is this a new form of torture?” she asked, barely holding back her laughter.

Zinanda, oblivious to the less-than-glowing reception, continued his heartfelt performance, each note straying further from the original tune. “*And I will always love you…*” he sang, turning a simple love song into an unintentional comedy routine.

We all gathered nearby, stifling our laughter as Zinanda’s serenade reached its climax. His crush, trying to be polite, clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Bravo!” she shouted, trying to mask her amusement.

We called each other “Dallon” as our names blended together, and it became a symbol of our unique connection. She was my first love, and our moments together were filled with laughter and warmth. I did everything I could to make her happy, because she poured so much love into my life that it felt only right to return it tenfold.

Our time together at Bishop Stuart was filled with humor, support, and endless adventures. Despite the comedic moments and occasional missteps, our bond grew stronger with each passing day. Through every twist and turn, we faced life’s challenges with a smile, knowing that we had each other. Our story wasn’t just about romance—it was about finding joy in the everyday and embracing each moment with laughter and love.

After college, our paths diverged, but I stayed in touch with her, clinging to the hope that maybe—just maybe—our story wasn’t over. I had moved to Kampala to chase dreams and make ends meet, hoping that distance might only make the heart grow fonder.

Life after college 

The first day I stepped into the classroom to teach, I was brimming with confidence. After all, how hard could it be to impart knowledge to eager young minds? Little did I know, I was about to find out just how challenging—and downright comedic—being a teacher could be.

As I walked into the classroom, I was greeted by a sea of curious faces. I cleared my throat and launched into my introduction with all the grandeur of a Broadway star. “Welcome, everyone! I’m your new teacher, and today, we’re going to embark on an exciting journey of learning!”

The students exchanged glances, clearly wondering if they had just signed up for an episode of “Survivor: Education Edition.” I continued, attempting to sound both authoritative and inspiring. “Today, we’ll start with an overview of the subject,” I said, pointing to the chalkboard. The chalk squeaked as I wrote, making the students wince as if they were hearing nails on a chalkboard.

For the next hour, I tried to captivate their attention with my enthusiastic explanations. I must have looked like a circus performer juggling flaming torches while balancing on a tightrope. At one point, I got so carried away that I knocked over a stack of papers, sending them fluttering around the room like confetti at a New Year’s Eve party. 

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. As I left the classroom, I overheard a student saying, “That was... something. Definitely not what I expected.” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a polite way of saying I should consider a career change.

Life in Kampala was a bit like my teaching experience—full of surprises and not always as smooth as I’d hoped. I had taken up a teaching job with high hopes of financial stability, only to discover that my paycheck was as elusive as a unicorn. After two months of working without a single cent, I decided enough was enough. I was tired of surviving on instant noodles and the occasional generous offer of free coffee from a sympathetic barista.

So, with a mixture of relief and resignation, I quit my teaching job and set my sights on furthering my education at Uganda Martyrs University. I enrolled in media studies, thinking it would be a fresh start and a chance to dive into a field I was genuinely passionate about.

Stepping into Uganda Martyrs University felt like entering a new world—one where the only thing more serious than the coursework was the academic rigor. I was suddenly surrounded by students who discussed media ethics and broadcast journalism with a seriousness that made my previous teaching job seem like a walk in the park.

As I adjusted to this new phase of my life, I lost touch with my college girlfriend. It wasn’t intentional—life just seemed to sweep me up in its whirlwind. My attempts to reach out to her were met with silence, and before I knew it, she had become a distant memory.

There were moments of nostalgia, of course. I’d find myself reminiscing about our shared laughter and silly moments. Like the time we tried to cook together and ended up with a kitchen disaster that would make Gordon Ramsay weep. Or the time I serenaded her with a song that was so off-key even the neighborhood dogs started howling in protest.

Despite the occasional pang of regret, I began to find solace in my new academic adventure. The media studies course was demanding, but it also offered a different kind of satisfaction—one that came from exploring new ideas and mastering the art of storytelling. I was learning how to create narratives that could captivate audiences, and in doing so, I started to write a new chapter of my own life.

In hindsight, my journey from teaching to media studies was a rollercoaster of challenges, unexpected turns, and a fair share of humor. Each experience, whether it was fumbling through my first teaching day or grappling with the complexities of media studies, added to the colorful tapestry of my life. And though I had lost touch with my college girlfriend, I had gained a wealth of experience and a fresh perspective on the world.

Life, with all its ups and downs, had taught me that even when things don’t go as planned, there’s always room for growth, laughter, and a new adventure.

While in my second year at the University , my heart decided it had enough of studying and wanted to embark on a grand quest—finding my college girlfriend. After months of sending her texts and calls, all unanswered, I was convinced that our love story was still worth chasing. The only hitch? I had lost my phone and with it, all her contact details. But a little thing like that wasn’t going to stop me. I packed my bags and set out on what would become a hilariously misguided adventure.

My plan was simple: travel to her village in Kabale, show up unannounced, and propose like a romantic hero from a classic love story. Armed with nothing but a bouquet of flowers and a heart full of hope, I ventured forth. 

Upon arrival in Kabale, I stopped at her Aunt's shop, hoping someone there could help me. The shop was a vibrant little place with more gossip and character than you’d find in a soap opera. There, amidst the clamor of customers and the clinking of soda bottles, a little girl was helping her aunt.

“Excuse me,” I said, trying to sound confident despite the awkwardness of the situation. “I’m looking for Mellon. Can you help me find her? I want to propose.”

The little girl’s eyes widened in curiosity, as if she had just been asked to assist in a grand heist. “I think I have her number,” she said, after a brief moment of contemplation.

She scribbled down a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me with a mischievous grin. I thanked her, feeling like I’d just been handed a golden ticket. Little did I know, this was merely the start of a series of comedic missteps.

I dialed the number with a heart full of anticipation. The phone rang a few times before a voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Davis, I’m looking for Mellon. I’m in Kabale and—” I began, but the voice on the other end cut me off.

“Oh, I’m afraid she’s not here,” the voice said, barely masking the amusement in her tone. “She’s very far away, out of town. You know, on a really long journey.”

I could practically hear the smirk in her voice. “Really?” I asked, “Because I’m standing right here in the village, and I was hoping to propose.”

“Oh, that’s... quite the coincidence,” she replied, trying not to laugh. “But she’s definitely not here. Maybe try calling her next week or something.”

I was disheartened, feeling like I was the butt of a cosmic joke. I thanked the mysterious voice and decided to take a walk through the village, hoping for a stroke of luck.

As I wandered through the quaint village, I bumped into locals who eyed me with curiosity, no doubt wondering why a young man was aimlessly wandering around clutching a bouquet of flowers. I tried to look nonchalant, but my romantic getup made me stand out like a sore thumb.

After several hours of searching and encountering various villagers who offered sympathetic smiles and dubious advice, I finally ran into a friend of my girlfriend’s aunt. He told me she had indeed left the village for a while but that she would be back soon. I clung to this new piece of information like a lifeline.

Feeling like a character from a tragic romance novel, I waited for her return, sitting on a bench and nursing my pride. My grand romantic gesture was quickly turning into a comedic anecdote for the villagers. 

Days later, when she finally returned, we met. I was eager to propose but tried to play it cool. “So, I came here to propose,” I said, handing her the bouquet, which by now had seen better days. “But it seems the universe had other plans.”

She burst into laughter. “Oh, you didn’t need to go through all this trouble,” she said. “I’d have loved to see you anyway, but you didn’t need to chase me all the way to Kabale.”

We laughed together, and while my grand proposal didn’t go exactly as planned, it became a story that we both cherished. It turned out that while my grand romantic gesture didn’t result in a proposal that day, it did lead to a deeper understanding of each other and a new story to tell.

Sometimes, even the most well-laid plans can go hilariously awry, but it’s these very moments that make life memorable and worth living. My adventure in Kabale was a lesson in love, patience, and the importance of keeping a good sense of humor.

As the years passed, I noticed something strange. She began dodging my calls like a pro. I’d ring her up, only to hear the voicemail recording say, “Sorry, the person you’re trying to reach is currently on a very long, imaginary vacation.” She was the Houdini of relationships, vanishing without a trace whenever I tried to reconnect.

“Hey, it’s me again,” I’d say, leaving yet another voicemail. “Just calling to check if you’ve been abducted by aliens or if you’ve simply decided that avoiding my calls is a new form of exercise.”

Days turned into weeks, and my calls became a symphony of unanswered messages and awkward voicemails. The situation reached its peak when I stumbled upon a social media post announcing her wedding. There it was, in vivid color: her smiling, radiant, and blissfully married. And there I was, sitting in my tiny apartment in Kampala, feeling like a character in a tragic soap opera.

I stared at the screen, my mind racing. “So that’s it?” I muttered, “She’s married and I didn’t even get an invite? Did I accidentally get written out of the script?”

I felt like a bad joke told at an inappropriate time. My heart sank as if someone had taken a jackhammer to it. My romantic notions turned into a bitter pill, and I began harboring a grudge against all the women in the world. My attitude toward them soured faster than milk left out in the sun.

It wasn’t long before I started developing a rather comical, if somewhat cynical, attitude towards women. I found myself walking around Kampala with a permanent scowl, muttering lines like, “I’m starting to believe that love is just a conspiracy theory created by chocolate companies to sell more products.”

One day, while hanging out at a café, I ran into an old friend who noticed my grumpy demeanor. “What’s with the long face?” she asked, sipping her latte.

“Let’s just say,” I replied, “I’ve had my heart broken into so many pieces that I could open a jigsaw puzzle store.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Well, it sounds like you’ve developed a ‘grumpy old man’ routine. You’re not even thirty yet!”

“Hey,” I said, “It’s a new skill. I’m thinking of teaching a class on how to judge every romantic gesture with the cold, hard stare of a skeptic.”

Life, however, had a way of throwing curveballs. One evening, while sulking at a local pub and nursing a drink, I overheard a conversation at the next table. A guy was explaining his disastrous attempt to impress a girl by cooking dinner. “I tried making spaghetti, but I ended up with something that looked like a science experiment gone wrong.”

The girl he was talking to burst out laughing. “That’s nothing. I once had a guy serenade me with a guitar—off-key, of course—and I had to pretend I was enjoying it. It was like having a cat stuck in a blender.”

Suddenly, I felt a pang of empathy. Maybe my romantic woes were not unique. I could see that everyone had their own messy love stories. Maybe it was time to lighten up and accept that heartbreak was part of the human experience.

I decided to take a more humorous approach to my love life. I started attending social events with a new mindset—one that involved more laughter and less bitterness. If love didn’t work out, at least I could amuse myself with the absurdities of dating.

One day, at a friend’s wedding, I found myself in a conversation with a woman who was genuinely interested in hearing my love stories. “So, tell me about your worst dating disaster,” she said, intrigued.

“Oh, I’ve got a good one,” I replied. “I once tried to impress a girl by cooking a fancy dinner, but I ended up serving a dish that could only be described as ‘medieval sludge.’ I think I accidentally invented a new form of food torture.”

We both burst out laughing, and in that moment, I realized that my experiences, however painful, were now just part of a humorous narrative I could share. Love might not have gone as planned, but I had found a new way to cope—with humor, acceptance, and the occasional self-deprecating joke.

As time went on, I began to heal, not by harboring resentment but by embracing life’s unpredictabilities. My old wounds slowly turned into funny anecdotes that reminded me that while love can be messy, it’s also full of laughter, learning, and unexpected joy.

After my ill-fated attempt to propose in Kabale and the subsequent discovery of her wedding via social media, I did what any self-respecting, heartbroken romantic would do: I blocked her. I figured if I couldn't win her heart, at least I could block her out of my digital life. It was a digital exorcism of sorts, ridding myself of the ghost of a relationship that never quite materialized.

Years rolled by, and life happened—complete with new adventures, new heartbreaks, and the occasional existential crisis. But, as fate would have it, I found myself reminiscing about my old flame. One day, while sipping a coffee that tasted suspiciously like cardboard, I had a lightbulb moment: maybe it was time to reconnect, but this time as friends. I wasn’t sure if it was a brilliant idea or a terrible one, but it seemed worth a shot.

I started my search, which, in the age of social media, felt like embarking on a treasure hunt. After a few weeks of relentless stalking and digital sleuthing, I finally found her. I hesitated, staring at the “Send Friend Request” button like it was a live grenade. With a deep breath, I clicked it and braced myself for the aftermath.

When she accepted the request, my phone buzzed with a notification that read, “You and M are now friends.” I felt a mix of triumph and apprehension. I was about to send my first message in years. 

I crafted a message with the care of a chef preparing a delicate soufflé. “Hey, Dallon ! Long time no talk. It’s me, Big Dallon. Remember me? The guy who once tried to impress you with his non-existent cooking skills?”

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Her response was quick and to the point. “Wow, blast from the past! How have you been?”

I took a deep breath. This was it—the moment of truth. “I’ve been good! Life’s been full of ups and downs, much like my attempts at cooking. Remember that spaghetti disaster?”

She replied with a laughing emoji. “Oh, I remember! That was legendary. It’s great to hear from you. What’s new?”

We fell into a surprisingly easy conversation. I told her about my new job, my latest hobbies, and the inexplicable fascination I had developed for collecting quirky socks. She shared stories about her life, her career, and how she had recently taken up salsa dancing, which she described as “a beautiful disaster.”

“Oh, salsa dancing! Sounds like you’re living the dream,” I replied. “I bet you’re a pro by now.”

She sent back a message with a humorous confession. “Actually, I’m more like a ‘footwork disaster.’ I’m constantly stepping on my partner’s toes. He says I’m giving him a free pedicure.”

I chuckled, imagining her dancing with the grace of a penguin on roller skates. “I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself. I once tried to impress a girl by learning how to waltz, but I ended up giving her a tour of the dance floor that resembled a rollercoaster ride.”

Our conversation flowed smoothly, filled with jokes, laughter, and shared memories. It felt like reconnecting with an old friend who knew your quirks and flaws—and cherished them.

Eventually, we decided to meet up for coffee. I was nervous, wondering if the old sparks would reignite or if we’d just end up awkwardly sipping lattes while discussing how life had changed. As I walked into the café, I spotted her sitting at a table, looking as radiant as ever.

She greeted me with a warm smile. “Hey, you made it! I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up or if you’d get lost in the same spaghetti disaster I remember.”

“Only if you promise not to make me dance,” I said, grinning. “I’ve learned my lesson from the last disaster.”

We spent hours chatting, laughing about old times, and discussing new adventures. It was clear that while the romantic chapter had closed, the friendship chapter was just beginning. Our reunion was filled with laughter, nostalgia, and the realization that sometimes, reconnecting with an old friend is the best kind of happiness.

In the end, blocking her might have been my way of moving on, but reconnecting was my way of embracing life’s unpredictability. Sometimes, the best stories are the ones where the plot takes unexpected turns, leading to laughter, growth, and new friendships.