They said Mathieu had everything to be happy. A stable job at a publishing house, a bright sixth-floor apartment, loyal friends who called when loneliness grew too loud. And yet, every evening, when the city fell silent and the lights reflected on the windows, a precise emptiness settled in him. Not a loud emptiness. A patient emptiness. The kind that waits.
Mathieu was not unhappy. He was incomplete.
He had loved, once. Loved hard, loved badly, loved too much. Every story had ended with the same sentence, spoken differently but felt the same way:
“You’re a good person, but it’s not you.”
So he had learned to persevere. Not with the naive fervor of youth, but with a silent, almost invisible endurance.
At thirty-eight, he decided to start again. Dating apps, arranged dinners, glances exchanged in cafés where hope mixed with awkwardness. Every meeting was a fragile promise.
There was Claire, passionate about travel, who dreamed of going far away but was afraid of getting attached.
There was Sonia, brilliant and gentle, who still carried the scars of an unfinished love.
There was Élise, funny and unpredictable, who disappeared the moment feelings became serious.
Each time, Mathieu fell, got back up, and moved forward. His friends asked him:
“Why do you keep going?”
He simply answered:
“Because giving up would hurt even more.”
But deep down, doubt was growing. What if perseverance was just another word for illusion?
One autumn evening, under a fine rain that gave the streets the look of an old film, Mathieu walked into a small neighborhood bookshop. He was looking for a specific book, without really wanting to. That’s where he saw her for the first time.
Anna.
She was sitting on the floor, her back against a shelf, surrounded by open books like windows. She didn’t look up. She was reading with rare intensity, as if the outside world no longer existed.
Mathieu stood still. Not because he was struck by her beauty — she was simple, almost understated — but because he felt something strangely familiar. A sense of calm.
They exchanged a few ordinary words. Nothing romantic. Nothing spectacular. Then they parted ways.
And yet, that night, Mathieu dreamed of her.
Weeks went by without him running into her again. He caught himself hoping, then reproaching himself for hoping. He had learned to distrust his own impulses. Perseverance, for him, was no longer about running toward love, but about not closing himself off when it took its time.
One evening, just as he was about to give up on any idea of fate, he ran into her by chance at a public reading. Their eyes met, and this time, she smiled.
They talked for a long time. About books, about losses, about roundabout paths. Anna had known a deep love, broken by time and fear. She too had kept going, without knowing why.
But when Mathieu suggested they meet again, she hesitated.
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
That sentence, he knew it all too well.
Mathieu could have walked away. Protected himself. Given up to avoid suffering again. But this time, something was different. He didn’t push. He didn’t withdraw either.
He simply said:
“I’m here. Not in a hurry. Not running away.”
Days turned into weeks. Messages rare but sincere. Silences respected. Perseverance took on a new form: conscious patience.
Anna fought against her fears. Mathieu fought against his impatience. Each moved at their own pace, without promises, without certainty.
One winter evening, Anna knocked on Mathieu’s door. It was cold. She was trembling, but not from the cold.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“So am I,” he answered.
They laughed softly.
It wasn’t a perfect scene. No music, no dramatic declaration. Just two people, tired of having searched separately, ready to try together.
Love doesn’t always arrive as something obvious. Sometimes it’s built in the waiting, in repetition, in the ability to stay open after every disappointment.
Mathieu then understood that perseverance wasn’t about seeking love at all costs, but about choosing himself at every step, until someone could walk beside him — not fill a void.
Love arrived not when he cried out his need for it, but when he had learned to wait without closing himself off.
And if this story has a moral, it is both simple and demanding:
Whoever perseveres in the search for love is not looking for someone to save them, but someone to move forward with, step by step, despite the detours.
On Nkang Killer, it’s not just about artificially finding someone to meet — it’s about having fun, enjoying time with friends, and being patient until it becomes something more.