The Most Improbable Man

Barcelona · Sunday, 10 August 2025 · around 07:00–14:00

You will be the impossible and most unlikely to find. I know you are there somewhere. You know I exist. I am pushing past the probability stacked against me to make sure I have honoured the impression you have left.

I’m writing this to find one person. If you’re just a curious reader, welcome—please share this with your Irish and Australian friends. If you are the person, you’ll know by the end.

We met in a place with some steam and a pool—the kind of place built for anonymity, not honesty. We drifted around like everyone else, but kept orbiting back to each other. Six, maybe seven hours of returning. The more we did, the better it felt.

You were loud on purpose at the bar, trying to get the clerk with glasses’ attention, or maybe the room’s. Your accent had an Australian lilt with Irish bones. You told me your name—R***. I was surprised and said, “You speak English,” and we were off. I told you I’m in C*** (Central Europe) and have lived in Ireland for almost *** years—based just south of D***l (arger city ) in *** which you seemed to know. But than what Irish wouldn’t.

After we started chatting You told me you live in Australia now, that Ireland is still in you, and that your work sits on the healthcare operations (you are supposed to manage several h**** ) although later you clarified that is the m**** e**** side of things. You didnt seem to want to share more, perhaps to keep your personal safe. And I did not push.

What You might also remember is the other Irish guy then we bumped into later that evening—tall, slim, fair, longer curly hair—which should’ve distracted you from me, but it didn’t. As we went on having fun in the place we floated apart, talked to strangers, and then found each other again. We kept doing that until it felt like a pattern and not an accident. And then it was intentional.

You might rember that at some stage when we were at the bar, you joked about paying for everyone’s drinks—“I can pay for all the drinks here,” you said. I teased: “No one here needs to see you’re rich.” You smirked back, “But I am rich, bitch.” And remember I that I told you it would be better if you were poor here. “I’m b***,” you said, and we both felt the temperature shift from show to real.

You had a habit of ordering drinks in twos. If I remember the taste correctly it was either r*** and c*** or b*** and c***. Later, I’d find you—and always take one—because you were already gone a little too far, and because I wanted to be the person who looked after you, even in a place not built for that. And you did not mind.

There was a thing you did that always told me where you were. I’m not going to name it here. Let’s call it The Signal. You used it to cut through noise, to end a conversation, to summon a clerk from the void, to express joy. You never used it on me. Once, you used it for me. It did annoy everyone because the acoustic of that place were truly bad.

At some stage in the night we had to settle our tabs. We bumped into each other the bar again. You said, “Fuck, I have to pay my bill.” I offered to get you a drink and walk with you to the reception desk. You said yes. But as I have ordered the drinks for us, I too was prompted to pay the bill. And you said again: “Oh Fuck, you have to pay the bill too.” So we went. At the desk, no one was there; a stranger waited ahead of us. The Signal cut the air; it worked, the clerk appeared. When I tried to pay for my bill, my card got rejected (i have 12 cards on my phone, I get confused by them). There was a flash of bravado coming from you—“I can pay for all”—and I hated how it sounded like the situation is putting pressure on you, so I paid for both. And I paid Ten euros for the stranger too. Not because it mattered—nothing about money matters in a place like that—but because I felt like you shouldn’t have to prove anything to anyone. And maybe you were trained in life to do exactly that? Well, definitely not in the place like this.

What I found truly intriguing was how you could use words like a whip: quick and clean. Witty. Gently on the offensive edge. Direct. You don’t ming pissing people off. You seemed to say things as they seem to be to you. But you also were clever, you got subtext realy quickly and you pointed at underhanded remarks if they made with the spot light.

Another thing you might remember was a young man from Ecuador. He met us at the bar, and seemed to be keen on following me for a bit. At one point I asked you to help me get away from him. Well, you couldn’t help and patronise me about not handling him like an adult and yet, you stepped in—fired back in Spanish with all the confidence in the world and none of the vowels in the right places, which only made me like you more. You were fearless—until you weren’t.

This is the way I remember you from the water when the jacuzzi was on In the water; Your beard was neat; your hair cropped at the sides, a little longer on top. The lights played tricks with color—copper, maybe? I do recal calling you a “ginger” at some stage, and also remember that you did not seem to like it. One thing that set you apart from everyone I interacted were your eyes.

When I looked at you looked back and did not avert your eyes. Yes, we had those moments where we just looked at each other. Although Your pupils were tiny, probably too much drink, your eyes come to me in my memory as pale blue, but because of the light, I also rember them to be kind of golden. Your left eye narrowed more than your right when you were tired. You were a little shorter than me (I’m 180 cm); when we stood close, your head could rest comfortably against my chest. I loved that. You let me touch you the way people touch when they’re sober enough to mean it.

Perhaps another moment could jog your memory. Another, young guy approached us giving out to me about stolen towel. You had a bit of an argument with him. He told me I should control my boyfriend. I laughed. You don’t seem to be person who needs to be controlled. Or deserves to be controled. I just took you away from him.

There was moment when we went for something to your locker and saw a man opening locker near yours. You were asking him why is he trying to get to your friend’s locker. I don’t know what he answered. He probably did not speak English. But I suggested that your friend probably left. I am not sure if it was a friend you traveled with to Barcelona or someone you met there. I also rember having vague conversation about the reason why you were in Barcelona. I thought it was for the mad festival, but you said something about your brother and the need to be here for him. Or with him. Funeral? Wedding? Launch to space? I don’t know. Bloody memory. I just hope it will help you to identify me.

Through out our stay You seemed to keep testing our connection—pulling away to see if the thread would hold—and I kept letting you, because I thought that was the safest way to show you it would not break. I have been at that stage awake for around 30 hours and yet i still remember the reasoning for my approach to you.

Sometime near noon, the mood broke. I rember you looked at someone’s watch (yeah, i dont rembember you wearing any, but you might remember I had Apple Watch, that was dead). “Can you believe it is actualy fucking noon?” You did exclaimed. “What are we even doing here in the middle of the day?” you said. And then you also seemed to realise something else and said then, softer: “This can’t be anything. Yan. Not here.” Your eyes glossed. You told me you were feeling too much. The whole orbiting around each other and being close to each shouldn’t feel the way it did. I realised that that you were talking about the unique way we interacted with each, there were feelings that one wouldn’t feel in place like this, and probably not often with anyone else. I stayed quiet.

We did our drifting again and when I found you for the last time it was the locker. When came to you I saw distress in your face. I wanted to hug you, however you pulled away. I notice your eyes welling up with tears. You were again questioning what were we even doing. This should be happening here. You said I hadn’t even asked you to leave with me. And You were right.

I touched your face and finally asked, “Do you want to come home with me?” It was too late. You put on a *** T‑shirt with soft, *** fabric, and the way you wore it said armour. I remember touching your shirt a thinking this is extremly good design and quality. I did not know what to do. I was realising that somehow I am causing you more distress. I went to my locker to check my phone. And then I only find out that You left.

I should have asked sooner.

I’ve made bigger mistakes in life, but this is the one I regret in my chest. I wanted to take you for coffee, watch you come back to yourself, then see what was left between us when the noise stopped. Maybe it would’ve been nothing. Maybe it would have been something. I totally agree with on thing you said: this should not have been happening in that place. Not to two mature man. Not emotional roller-coaster. Not an interest in more than the surface. But it did, R. That’s why I am looking for you. It was at least unique, and I just want to have the tiniest chance that I get to reconnect and explore it more.

If you’re reading this and recognize yourself: you don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe me your name, or your job, or an explanation for why you left. You only owe yourself the truth of whether you want to see what this was, outside the steam. But if you will ever find this message ….

If you think this might be you, go to Are You the One? and answer a few light checks. It serves only to avoid confusion, as this was busy place and some else might have identify themselves with the story, as it is vague and lacks details – caused by exhaustions, and to protect you from being identified if you do not wish to reconnect with me. If you’re just someone moved by the story, please share it—especially with Irish and Australian circles.

Why some details are deliberately vague

• Consent & safety: I won’t post anything that could out or embarrass you. If you don’t want to be found, you shouldn’t be.
• Venue norms: Spaces built on anonymity deserve care; I’m avoiding specifics that would expose other people.
• Impersonation guard: I’m releasing details in stages so only the real person can unlock them. More precise facts come privately after a few simple checks.

Light self‑check (public, non‑identifying): If your card statement for Sunday 10 Aug 2025 shows a generic corporate descriptor for a Barcelona venue from that morning/early afternoon, that may be another hint. I’ll confirm the exact wording privately after the checks.

For friends who think they might know him (light specifics)

• First name: starts with R. (Irish, living in Australia). I have his first full name, but want to keep it safe for him.
• Voice: Irish accent with an Australian lilt; confident, playful, a little loud on purpose.
• Observed Habits: ordered drinks in twos; used a distinctive type signal to get a clerk’s attention; never used it on me.
• Time/place vibe: Barcelona, Sunday 10 Aug 2025, late morning to early afternoon, steamy anonymous venue with a pool/jacuzzi.
• Work hint: healthcare operations (kept vague on purpose).
• Locker moment: his locker was near the stairs; he questioned a man who seemed to be opening his friend’slocker; the friend had left.
• Leaving detail: put on a beige, thick, soft T‑shirt as he left.
• Look: neat beard; short sides/longer top; lights made hair read slightly copper; left eye narrowed a touch more when tired.
• Height: a little shorter than me (I’m 180 cm); when we stood close, his head rested comfortably against my chest.