The days turned into weeks, and the search for Adrián became an obsession that I couldn't control. Every night, after an exhausting day at work, I would sit in front of my laptop, with a half-drunk beer, browsing social media, hiking forums, and even nature photography pages. I tried impossible combinations: "Adrián photographer mountain Spain", "Adrián beard hiking", "Adrián green eyes". I searched in mountaineering groups, asked discreetly in a couple of forums, describing him vaguely so as not to seem like a stalker. Nothing. It was as if the mountain had swallowed him, as if he had only existed in that mountain pass, under the stars.

My head was a whirlwind. I not only wanted to find him; I needed to know if what I had felt was real, if he had also felt that spark, that connection that had left me defenseless. Was he thinking of me? Did he ever wake up remembering our kiss, the way our bodies had come together in the tent, the shared silence afterwards? Or, worse still, had it been just another adventure for him, a fleeting encounter on one of his many routes around the world? The uncertainty was eating away at me. I imagined opposing scenarios: him searching for me with the same desperation, or him laughing with friends, telling the story of "that boy in the mountain" as an unimportant anecdote.

I returned to the mountain pass once more, on a gray Saturday when the sky threatened rain. I climbed with the irrational hope that he would be there, perhaps sitting on the same rock, with his backpack and his smile. But the place was empty, more silent than ever. I sat down, looking at the horizon, and let the doubts envelop me. What if he had also returned, but at a different time? What if he was on another mountain, in another country, living his life without looking back? The idea that he might not feel the same way hurt me more than I wanted to admit. It had been so real for me, so intense, that I couldn't conceive that it would be less for him.

Back in the city, I tried to move on. I went out with friends, even accepted a date that Pablo set up for me with a nice guy I met at a bar. But it didn't work. While he talked about his job, I could only think of Adrián, of how his hands had caressed my skin, of how his laughter filled the mountain air. I apologized and left early, feeling more lost than ever.

One night, unable to sleep, I wrote a letter that I would never send. In an old notebook, I scribbled down everything I felt: the excitement of finding him, the desire that still burned, the frustration of not knowing who he was, the question that tormented me: Did you feel the same? I tore out the page, ripped it to pieces, and threw it in the trash. But writing it, even if it was useless, gave me a little peace.

I started to accept that maybe I would never find him. Maybe Adrián was a gift from the mountain, a perfect moment that was not meant to be repeated. But even now, when I look out the w...