When I emerge from the métro station, it’s already dark. And cold. But unlike a couple of weeks ago, evenings are a lot less depressing now. It’s late November, which means only a month to go until my favorite time of year.

A few days ago, the Mayor of Paris switched on the illuminations on the Champs-Elysées, and the city donned its festive attire. Bright garlands zigzag between buildings, shop windows compete to offer the most beautiful displays, and tree branches sparkle with tiny leaves of light.

As I marvel at the fairy-tale-like feel of my neighborhood, the cynic in me rolls her eyes and argues that Christmas is the most commercialized holiday of the year. The bright lights? They are there to make us spend more on gifts and entertainment.

But my inner Disney princess pouts and begins to sing, There’s magic in the air!

The cynic pulls a face and crawls back into her joyless den.

After stopping at the sushi place near the station to order my usual takeout, I hurry home. The final match of the Pro A league begins in ten minutes.

I don’t want to miss a minute of it.

A week after I got back from Montpellier, Julien sent me a ticket to today’s game which the Nageurs are playing in Paris. I texted that I wouldn’t go. He texted back asking if I would at least watch the game streamed live on the Internet.

I wrote back that I would. And I intend to keep my promise.

This match is the Nageurs’ chance to win the gold they’ve been vying for two years now.

I cross my fingers on both hands.

Please, let them win!

By the time I fire up my laptop, the game has already begun. Placing my food in front of me on the table, I peer at the screen. As I scan the pool for Julien, I wonder if his nose has healed by now.

When I spot him, my jaw drops.

He has a white mask on his face that makes him look like a hockey goalie or an unsung comic book hero.

I guess his nose had been broken, after all, and the doc forced him to wear that contraption to protect it from further injury. On the bright side, the doc wouldn’t have allowed Julien to play again so soon if he’d had a concussion.

So, no concussion.

“The man in the mask,” the commentator says, “is Paris’s hole-D Julien Boitel. His nose got broken two weeks ago, during the match with Montpellier. Boitel claims he can’t remember how or when exactly it happened.”

The camera shifts to the action near the goalie’s cage, and for a few minutes, I can’t see Julien. The game seems to be less brutal than the one in Montpellier, but there’s still too much wrestling, shoving, and jostling for my liking.

Julien should’ve sat this match out, like he did for the first playoff game last week.

But of course he couldn’t, not with the gold medal in the balance.

Finally, the players in the pool sprint to the other side and the camera zooms in on Julien, defending the hole. When the two grappling men turn so that Julien’s back is toward me, I clap my hand to my mouth and stare.

Between his shoulder blades is a huge double rose with a line of text in the middle.

Can it be…?

Has he lost his mind?

“Oh, wow,” the commentator says. “Nageurs’ hole-D has made sure his back stands out as much as his face today. That tattoo is spectacular.”

When the camera zooms in tighter, I can just make out the writing.

I love you, Noemi Dray.

It’s the exact same tattoo he’d had inked in eight years ago.

The mistake he later went through pain and tears to erase.

One of the reasons he wanted revenge.

The rest of the game—an hour or so, including time-outs and overtimes—is a blur. I just sit in my chair, oblivious to my empty stomach, the progress of the game, the score, and the whole world.

At some point, I taste salt in my mouth and realize I’m crying.

My heart is so full I’m afraid it will burst. Part of the overflowing emotion is defeat. An admission that my rational mind and sense of self-preservation have lost the battle to things that are more primal. Illogical. Hardly defensible in court.

Desire is one of those things.

An unfounded optimism that everything will be all right is another.

But the biggest winner is the inexplicable certainty that this pigheaded, crazy man is my future, my other half.

Despite what I’ve done to him.

Despite what he’s done to me.

How can a defeat feel so sweet, so liberating? One minute I’m taking care of myself, all grown up and sensible—and the next I’m jumping for joy at the prospect of inviting the man who humiliated and dumped me a month ago back into my bed, and back into my life.

So, this is what love is like.

I tune back in when the horn sounds the end of the game.

“Nageurs de Paris win the Pro A League Championship. They are officially the best water polo club in France,” the commentator says.

Julien must be pumped now.

I grab my phone and send him a message that consists of four little words:

I love you too.