The title saudade is a Portuguese term that the internet assures me has many definitions, including "a melancholy nostalgia for something that perhaps has not even happened."

"Have you ever been in love?"

It's a deceptively simple question, and you know she expects an equally simple answer. Perhaps a fond smile as you say yes, or a wistful sigh as you shake your head no. Or maybe even something a little more complex, a fairy tale gone wrong of once upon a time, but no longer.

And that's the thing, isn't it? She's young, as you were once, but also innocent in ways you never truly got to be. She doesn't stare at you, waiting for an answer, as if your life experience is the only thing that can shine a light of understanding on her own. She merely glances up as she finishes the question, then slips her eyes back down to her latest work of art. She seems content to let you sit quietly, watching her and not quite answering her sudden question.

And you appreciate that, because how can you begin to explain to one so open-hearted? How to articulate the feeling of not really knowing the answer to one of life's most basic questions?

Your mind wanders - well, that's not true. It darts, rather rapidly, to a box of memories you keep close to your heart and far from your head. Years of mixed emotions, mixed messages, mixed metaphors. Antagonism, sarcasm, mistrust. Friendship, loyalty, mistrust again. Rescue, avoidance, rebuilding. Forever dancing around this Thing, never giving it a name, never getting it right. Occasionally setting that Thing on fire, only to pull it from the flames at the last moment, salvaging what was left and lighting a fire anew.

You think of a decade of smiles, his raucous laughter. Soft eyes, and his more private, more real laugh. Always knowing he had your back, while sometimes losing sight of that. An eternity of back and forth, never on the same page - sometimes, not even in the same book. But it always came back to him, when it mattered. Isn't that what counts? And yet, is that enough to answer her question?

You haven't seen or spoken to him in a year. There hasn't been a day that's passed where you haven't keenly felt the absence. You can't help wondering if he still thinks of you so often. You dream of him more often than you care to admit, even to yourself. You don't often indulge in rumination of what might have been, but some scenarios stick with you. You've never truly desired kids, and you don't think he did either, but you still sometimes wonder what they would have looked like. His expressive green eyes and open smile, your dark hair and perpetually olive skin? Or a life without children, but no shorter on happiness for it. A dog, for sure. There's always a dog in these reflections. A Golden Retriever, perhaps a pit bull - much like both of you, they get a bad rap, but aren't inherently bad. A little love could change everything.

Ahh, and there's the word again. You still haven't answered your young friend's question; you're still not sure what the answer really is. There was at one time a man you certainly had strong feelings for. You still do, if you're being honest. (You're not, fully. At least not with her. Barely with yourself.) You miss him, ache for him, wish you knew how to reconcile that with the possibility of never seeing him again. And above all, for as much heartache as it's caused, you're grateful to have ever known him at all. You've never labelled it, that delicately phoenix-like Thing between you and him, because it doesn't seem right to do so. How can you say yes, it was exactly that, when you never had the opportunity to explore it with him? To learn, with him at your side, what it truly means? There was never a first date, no precious early relationship stories to embarrass future kids or dogs. You've shared a bed, known the comfort of his arms around you keeping the demons at bay. There were just as many conversations held with eye contact and facial expressions as with actual words, in ways that no one else could ever understand. Your relationship has been broken and then mended under the strain of things far greater than dinner plans or financial hardships, but does that entitle you to anything? You don't know what to call it, other than to know that - at least for your own heart - it was enough.

And so it is. She looks up at you again as you sigh lightly. The crinkle at the corner of her eyes, the tilt of her head, the pursing of her lips is enough to tell you that she can't possibly understand any of this when she hears you answer, simply…

"Maybe."