I’m sharing this because this weekend stayed with me, and writing it out feels like the right way to let it go.

Some experiences aren’t meant to turn into relationships. They’re just meant to be lived.

This was one of those.

I matched with a French man on Tinder while he was in my city for work. He was here for a medical conference. He wasn’t just attending, he was also speaking on a panel. It was obvious the topic mattered to him. He talked about it with real interest, not like he was trying to impress anyone.

We agreed to meet for a drink. We’d already done a short video call, and this was just to see if there was chemistry in person.

When he walked in, I felt it immediately.

His profile said he was 6’6”. And yes, we all know men lie about height. But he really was that tall. I was wearing heels and still had to look up at him. Broad shoulders, solid build. He took up space in a calm, quiet way.

He had light blue eyes, almost gray. Dark blond hair. A strong face, but soft around the edges. And that swimmer’s body. Wide shoulders, narrow waist. Strong without trying too hard.

I noticed all of it. Then I told myself not to overthink it.

We talked for about two hours. It was easy. He was smart, thoughtful, very cerebral. At times I felt like I couldn’t quite keep up with him. Not in a bad way. I just listened more than I talked. I honestly assumed he was enjoying the conversation, nothing more.

I didn’t think he was attracted to me at all.

When it was time to go, I felt like it had been a nice night. Nothing more. I offered to drive him back to his hotel.

The car ride felt different.

The conversation slowed down. The silence felt charged. His knee turned toward mine. Before getting out, he looked at me and said he’d really like to see me again.

It caught me off guard.

I said I would too.

Then he kissed me. Slow. Intentional. No rush. The kind of kiss that makes your body react before your brain does. It hit me low in the stomach and completely changed how I saw the night.

I knew he was traveling. I knew what this probably was.

Still, I was in.

The next night, I picked him up after his conference wrapped. He grabbed his things from his hotel and came back with me. It felt decided. Easy.

We wandered around looking for food and ended up eating late. We laughed more. Our knees touched under the table and stayed there. The distance from the first night was gone.

By the time we got back to my place, it was late.

I made us tea. We stood close in the kitchen. When he finally touched me, I felt the size difference right away. I’m 5’5”, and being held by him made me feel small in a really good way. His hands were warm and steady. His body felt solid and calm.

Things unfolded slowly. He paid attention. Took his time. I felt wanted. Desired. Chosen.

When we finally fell asleep, I tried to turn away like I usually do. He pulled me right back into him without waking up.

I have a king bed. We still stayed glued together on my side.

Every time I moved, his body followed. His arm stayed wrapped around me. His breathing stayed steady. There was something deeply comforting about the way he held me. It felt familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.

The next day was soft and domestic. Breakfast. Showers. Running errands together. The weird intimacy of doing normal things with someone you barely know but already feel close to. His hand kept finding my lower back without thinking.

I asked if he wanted to stay another night. He said yes right away.

That afternoon, we lay on the couch. My head on his lap. His fingers moving through my hair slowly. No rush. Just closeness.

He talked about his life. About being 40 and feeling like things hadn’t gone the way he expected. About moving a lot growing up because of his dad’s job. About continuing that pattern himself. Always searching.

He talked about therapy. Mental health. Trying to stop running. About working in tech now and wanting to build something meaningful. A startup related to diabetes support. He told me he’d been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes as a teenager and how much that shaped him.

He also talked about the conference. How much he enjoyed speaking. How he wanted to do more of that. Be invited to more events. Have a voice.

Nothing he said was aimed at me.

But I understood.

This wasn’t going to become more.

I didn’t pull away. I didn’t try to change anything. I stayed there, warm against him, letting it be what it was.

That night, he held me the same way. All night. Like letting go would cost him something.

By Monday morning, we’d spent almost 40 hours together. The mood shifted. Quieter. We both felt the ending coming.

I drove him back into the city. Dropped his things at his hotel. Then dropped him off. The goodbye was gentle. No promises. Just a long kiss.

A few days later, he texted me to thank me for the weekend and added a small blue heart. I replied. He liked my message. That was it.

Later, I sent one more message. Light. Casual. He didn’t reply. And I understood that too.

Only after did he learn I’d been about to turn 40. I never told him at the time. It didn’t feel necessary.

What stays with me isn’t regret.

It’s how he held me. How present he was. How safe and wanted I felt for those 40 hours.

When he left, the bed felt too big. The air felt lighter. And then, slowly, even that feeling passed.

We crossed paths at exactly the right time for exactly what this was.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

And writing it out here feels like finally letting it go.