I Crave a Lucy Sperling

It all began with a simple click.

A message. A quiet spark carried by my curiosity: who was this girl from Sydney, living here, in Toulon—just fifteen minutes from my home?
Of course, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t charmed by her photos too.

We started talking—just a few simple messages at first. A bit awkward, a bit curious.
But something about the way she wrote made me want to keep the conversation going.
Her words felt kind and honest.
I found myself checking my phone more often, smiling at the little notifications.

One week later, I remember lying in bed, when I received her message. I hesitated. But then I thought: what do I really have to lose? So I said yes. And from that very moment, the thought of meeting her never left my mind.

A few days passed, and it was decided: I was going to meet Lucy.

It was a Saturday. The sky was clear, and the day felt full of promise. It was one of those late spring days. We had planned to meet in the afternoon, in Toulon. I remember getting ready far too early—out of pure excitement—and then waiting on my doorstep for at least thirty minutes, just sitting on the stairs... smiling to myself.

I got in the car and drove toward the train station. Part of me was nervous—terrified, even—but I did my best to silence it. Because deeper than fear, there was joy. A quiet, excited joy.

On the train, I got a message from her: she was feeling anxious.
Truth is, I was too.
But I didn’t want to add to it. I sent her a song—Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin—I put it on in my headphones too.
It helped, a little.

Before I knew it, I had arrived.
It was hot, and I had worn boots—probably not the best idea (I had hot feet). I walked fast, excitement rushing through my whole body. Just outside the station, two strangers stopped me. They asked if I was from here. I said no. They were dressed in a strange way. When I asked if they needed help, they simply asked, “Do you believe in God?” I think I told them not really, and that I was in a hurry.

My boots echoed in the narrow alley as I passed through the shade.
Then, ahead, the sun exploded over Place de la Liberté, golden and wide.
To calm myself, I called her before stepping into the light—I told myself it was to find her more easily, but the truth is… I just wanted to hear her voice.

I crossed the last building and looked out onto the square.
“Where are you?” I said into the phone.
And then—
A hand raised.
“I see you!”
It was her.
It was you, Lucy.

You looked even better in real life. Cute, small, and just… captivating. I remember putting on my boots that day, and when I saw you had yours on too, it made me weirdly happy. I already knew you had style from your photos, but seeing you there, in the sunlight, it all made sense. You looked very cool.

You had this calm, gentle energy that made it so easy to talk to you. As if we already knew each other. There was no pressure, just a quiet fascination.
I wanted to know everything—your thoughts, your stories, the way your mind moved.
Every little thing you said caught my attention.

I liked the way you treated me, you made me feel comfortable—like I could be fully myself, say anything, be anyone.
You made me feel safe. Seen.

Then you brought me to the port—to your spot, your sunlit sanctuary.
I knew it mattered to you, it felt special.
Everything slowed down.
I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

We got a little hungry and went off in search of sweet treats. I wanted you to try a pain suisse, and you took me into your kingdom: Carrefour. We grabbed a cookie too—I thought you said dark chocolate, but later you told me it was white chocolate.
I felt so silly, but we laughed, and it was fine.

Back at the port, we shared our little treasure like two kids.
Then came the thirst.
I asked you to wait while I went to buy us water.

There is also this little moment I keep thinking about.
When I came back, I saw you wearing my sunglasses on your head.
I don’t know why, but something about that simple moment made my heart warm.
It felt familiar and sweet, like we had our own little thing going on.

You spoke about your love for fashion, your passion for clothes.
I was obsessed—not just by your words, but by the sunlight in your curls, the way it lit up your freckles.
We sat there for a while, maybe more, watching the golden light slowly go down.
And then—you suggested a picnic.

The perfect idea.

We returned to your favorite store. We spent a long time by the cheese aisle, me trying to convince you to pick something a little stronger.
You smiled and chose a bottle of sweet wine—moelu, as you like to call it.
At the self-checkout, there was a line, and I remember looking into your eyes and smiling like a fool.
I couldn’t help it.

Comté, saucisson, breadsticks—and even a melon, which we picked up from your place.
We took Bus 3 to Mourillon Beach.

On the bus, I complimented your rings—each one unique and beautiful, just like you.
Once we found our spot, we laid out the towel and sat side by side against a low wall.
You put on music—our shared playlist.
And I felt it again: that perfect, quiet happiness.

The sun was gone. The air had turned cooler.
The wine went to my head, and I remember laughing more easily.
You were funny and so sweet.

At one point, we thought a kid had drowned—he had disappeared underwater too long.
You wanted to run and help him.
I didn’t.
I just wanted to stay there, next to you.

And then… it happened.
You laid your head on my stomach.
I could feel the warmth of your body.
A deep calm washed over me.
I don’t think I’d ever felt that kind of peace before.

Our eyes met,
And for a second, everything just made sense.

I leaned in and kissed you.
Your lips were soft, warm, and tasted like summer.

From that moment on,
I’ve never been more certain of anything—
It’s you I want to share my life with.