She is the one.
I sensed her thoughts precisely at the point where thought begins—where raw perception starts to shape itself into meaning. And I bent, almost involuntarily, to the form they were taking.

And then it happened.
That moment people only ever describe in books—half myth, half cliché. Until it’s yours.

But because physics once taught me that the world is made of electrons, protons, and neutrons, I’m trained to doubt that voice.
The soul hasn’t yet been catalogued among the things that can be measured or seen under a microscope.

So I dismiss it. Quietly. Rationally.
Even as it keeps whispering—clearer than thought:
She is the one.

You tilt your inner ear. Something in matter flickers—momentarily dishonest. The skeptic in me stirs, irritated.
The soul—that inconvenient, undocumented thing—begins to hum. And it exasperates me.

My soul and I—we’ve managed to ignore each other with admirable consistency. A quiet, long-standing non-aggression pact. Which is exactly why I’m vexed. You don’t just start speaking after forty years of clenched silence. That’s not how this works.

My soul is an autistic child who’s never quite learned to make eye contact.
My soul is an ascetic, sealed inside a cathedral of silence—who, without warning, has decided it’s time for a chat.

She is the one.
And my materialism flinches—
Not out of principle, but out of sheer moral convenience.
I’ve built an entire internal architecture on the assumption that nothing follows. That everything is permitted, so long as there’s no “to be continued” waiting on the other side of death.

Because if soul is true, then I’m forced to reinvent everything: what I know about myself. About others. About the world. About the very structure of meaning. And frankly, that sounds exhausting. So I do what any self-respecting modern mind does when confronted with the possibility of transcendence: I ignore it.

“I choose to ignore”—arguably the finest slogan materialism has ever produced. But even that, I’m afraid, is starting to wear thin.

She is the one.
I am the witness to a spiritual ambush. When it comes to the transcendent, materialists actually hold an advantage—I call it The Saul-Paul Advantage.

Because when the universe—or Heaven, or the so-called Good Lord—decides to contradict a materialist. He doesn’t whisper. He appears. In person. In full glory. He speaks. Directly. Corrects the error with unflinching precision,
then assigns a task that sounds suspiciously like a life sentence: “Go and…”

And if the message isn’t clear the first time,
it repeats.
With divine redundancy.
Until even doubt gives up.

That’s where I was.
Same position.
Same clarity.

The soul—this inconvenient, unscientific signal—
kept transmitting the same line.
Again and again.

And again.

She is the one.
I moved closer to Anca and took both her hands—gently—into mine.

Was it the temptation to believe?
The craving for a beautiful detour?
I’m ten centimeters away from she is the one,
and I still can’t look at her.
I don’t trust myself to raise my eyes.

We’re so close that if the soul were to speak—clearly, out loud—
I’m afraid Anca might hear it too.

And yet, I stay.
I dare to remain beside her.
I let my fingers drift along hers—
white, expressive, slender,
flawlessly manicured,
as if shaped for gestures that never needed words.

She is the one.

rise to my feet—but the whisper clings to me, rising with me like a heat I can’t shake. There are no revelations. No heavenly voices. Only the unbearable nearness of something I’ve spent a lifetime denying.

She doesn’t say a word.
Neither do I.
But for a moment—barely—
I think we’re both listening
to the same silence.

And maybe that’s enough.