I had been alone in Golfito for six weeks by the time Daisy arrived.
Not lonely –at least not in the dramatic sense but settled into a rhythm that was starting to feel… flat. Predictable. The days were peaceful, yes, but peace can sometimes slide into stillness without you noticing.
Daisy came into town quietly. British. Staying a few houses down with a neighbour. I met her the way you meet people in small towns –not through plans, but through proximity and openness.
I was walking Dakka when my neighbour’s mom stopped me. Her mom, also British, introduced me to Daisy. We exchanged the kind of polite hellos that don’t promise anything. Before we parted, I did what I always do.
I invited them to use the pool.
I have an open-door policy –for my neighbour, her family and of course her dear mom. They accepted. Later that day, we sat by the pool, talking easily. No effort. No performance. Somewhere in the conversation, Daisy mentioned her work was ending and she’d need a place soon.
I suggested she talk to my hosts.
They said yes.
I think officially it was for the help –but unofficially, I suspect they didn’t like the idea of me housesitting alone for so long. Maybe they worried. Maybe they just knew something I didn’t yet.
A few weeks later, Daisy was part of my life. We housesat together. Walked Dakka together. Fell into easy movie nights. She brought movement into days that had grown still. Not chaos –just freshness. A reminder that routine doesn’t have to be rigid.
We talked. A lot.
Not in the dramatic, oversharing way but in the slow, layered way where trust builds naturally. We shared pasts without judgment. Just listening. Just being present. I told her things I had never said out loud before. Not because she asked but because I felt safe enough to.
We became siblings.
She was my sister. I was her brother. The kind of bond that doesn’t flirt, doesn’t confuse, doesn’t demand. Just is.
Somewhere between dog walks and dinner plans, Daisy and I created something we didn’t know we needed.
We called it “Creative Hour”.
No rules. No pressure. Just a protected slice of the day where we worked on something we loved or something we’d been avoiding for far too long. Writing. Sketching. Planning. Playing ukulele. Doing magic. Organizing thoughts that had been living in our heads rent-free.
It wasn’t about productivity. We didn’t measure output or set goals. The only requirement was showing up.
Sometimes we worked quietly, side by side, the kind of silence that feels companionable instead of awkward. Other days, we learnt Spanish together, gently nudging each other forward. If one of us got stuck, the other didn’t fix it –we just stayed present.
That hour became sacred.
It reminded me that creativity doesn’t disappear when you breakdown it just waits patiently until it feels safe again. And safety, I learned, can come from something as simple as shared intention.
Creative Hour didn’t cure anything. It didn’t launch projects or change the world. But it gave me permission to engage with myself without urgency. To enjoy making something again without asking whether it would ever be useful.
And somehow, that was enough.
The best part of having Daisy around? She challenged me. Whenever fear crept in about trying something new, going somewhere unfamiliar, saying yes she’d look at me and ask, calmly:
“Why do I feel so?” “Why do you care?”
And suddenly, the fear shrank. Not gone –but manageable. We’d talk it through. Rationally. Kindly. She had a way of soothing my anxiety without dismissing it. A rare skill.
There’s a line from Before Sunrise that feels right here:
“I think if there’s any kind of God, it wouldn’t be in any of us –not you or me but just this little space in between”.
The movie suggest that meaning doesn’t live inside people, but somewhere in the space between them. I didn’t fully understand that line when I first heard it.
I do now.
What Daisy brought into my life wasn’t excitement or distraction –it was safety. Not something dramatic or romantic. Just the kind of safety that lets you speak without rehearsing. Try without spiraling. Be without performing.
She didn’t fix anything. She didn’t fill a void. She made it easier to sit with myself.
And sometimes, that’s the most healing kind of love there is.
I’m still amazed by how chance meetings work. How the universe introduces people not when you’re searching, but when you’re open. Not every meaningful connection is romantic. Some of the most healing ones are built on presence, laughter, and shared silence.
A few houses down. A walk with a dog. A swim invitation.
And just like that, a friend for life.