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Our Story (is constantly being updated)
We met on October 19th, 2019 (the day of Alberto’s mother’s birthday, and the day before my mother’s birthday.) We didn’t know it at the time, but that day would mark the beginning of something neither of us had expected. From our first date, it felt like we were meant to be in each other’s lives. So natural and easy that we didn’t think about it or discuss it.
Our first date was in the basement of Casa Mabruk, where the top floors of the house were being demolished for renovations. The basement was a small, makeshift storage unit—about 30 square meters—with an inflatable mattress as our bed, cold running water, and a cable running through the window for electricity. There was no door to the bathroom, but somehow, none of it mattered. We spent hours talking, laughing, and getting to know each other. It was easy to forget the surroundings when the connection between us was so strong.
The days blended together after that. Days turned into weeks. Alberto would leave for work in the mornings and come back in the evenings, but we never noticed how quickly time passed. We spent six months in that basement, living together without ever talking about it. It wasn’t something we planned—it just was.
Christmas came, and we decided to spend it together in Ibiza. After that, we went to Berlin for New Year’s Eve and to celebrate Alberto’s birthday. Berlin was unforgettable. We went dancing on NYE, and as we walked home through the cold streets, Alberto suddenly turned to me and said, “Christopher, I’m in love with you.” It was said so softly, I asked him to repeat it. He did. “Christopher, I’m in love with you.” I smiled and said, “I’m in love with you too.” It felt like everything was leading to that moment. Simple, honest, and completely real.
When we returned from Berlin, life took its course. Alberto began planning a trip to Caracas to visit his family, and out of nowhere, he asked, “Why don’t you come with me?” Without thinking twice, I booked my flight. We spent time exploring the city, and I was welcomed into his world by his family and friends. It was a whirlwind of warmth and connection, and I felt like I was part of something bigger than just the two of us.
Then came Covid. The world changed overnight. I had to catch the last flight out of Caracas to Madrid before the airports closed. The airport goodbye was harder than I’d anticipated, knowing we didn’t know when we’d see each other again.
Alberto’s situation was worse. Venezuela had run out of paper to print passports, and without it, he couldn’t get the necessary travel extension. The passport offices were closed, so he was stuck. We said our goodbyes, neither of us knowing how long we’d be apart.
The following months were tough.
We stayed in touch, relying on WhatsApp messages and video calls when the internet allowed.
Venezuela went through one of the strictest lockdowns, and power outages made communication difficult. After ten days of silence, I finally reached out to Alberto’s mum. She contacted his cousin, and soon after, I got a call from Alberto. It felt like a lifeline, hearing his voice again.
During that time apart, something clicked inside me. I knew I wanted to be with him forever. I wanted to grow old with him. The idea of marriage, something I had never given much thought to before, suddenly seemed like the right thing. I was certain I wanted to propose when we next talked.
He called me on May 13th, 2020, and the first words out of his mouth were “Christopher, will you marry me?” I was taken off guard, hearing my words projected at me, so asked him to repeat himself, what did you just say? “Christopher, will you marry me?” Yes… blissful tearful smiles… The next day when we talked I had to ask him whether I’d needed him to ask me twice because it was all a blur. He confirmed and there’s been no doubt since.
Month after month, we found ourselves on the phone and sending email to the Italian, British, and Spanish Embassies. Every call was a faint thread of hope, each conversation a reminder of how desperately we wanted to be together again. Alberto was stuck in Venezuela, and I was in Ibiza, and we could only wait, trying to navigate the maze of repatriation flights that had become our only lifeline.
Each month, Alberto would receive reassuring words from a contact at the Italian Embassy: The next flight is yours. We were certain this time would be different, convinced that surely, this was the moment he’d finally make it home. “You’re at the top of the waitlist,” he was told. “You’ll be on the next flight for sure.” Their words were always comforting in the moment, but each time the flight passed and he remained in Venezuela, the disappointment grew deeper. It became unbearable—the constant letdown, the hope that fizzled out with every missed flight.
Then, finally, six months later, after what felt like endless waiting, he received the call. There was a seat for him. It wasn’t a promise this time—it was real. It was almost unbelievable, too good to be true. The relief that washed over us both was overwhelming, but we knew there was only the reality: being the moment when he would step off that plane that would make it believable.
And in that moment, all the months of waiting, of uncertainty, of longing—everything led to that single, perfect moment.
He was home. And we were about to start the next chapter of our lives together.
