Ia Street: The Legend of My Love

Prologue

Every city has its own silence — special, expressive. In Tbilisi, it hides between ancient balconies, slips through the scent of fresh bread, and flickers in the lights above the Kura River. But one day, something else was revealed to me — a street so tiny and inconspicuous that one could easily pass by without noticing. If not for its name.

There is a street in Tbilisi — Ia Gargarateli. Small, almost invisible on the city map, escaping the attention of passersby and tourists like a modest petal in the multilayered bouquet of this ancient city. But in my heart, it resounds like a poem. Like a revelation. Because its name is Ia. Like the name of my love.

Every time I walk down this street, I feel as if the city itself begins to speak to me. It whispers her name with the gentle wind, with the rustling of leaves, with raindrops on the windowsill. The cobblestones, worn by time, seem to have absorbed her footsteps — light, unseen, perhaps never actually walked here. But in my world — they have. I see her walking toward me like the shadow of a memory, like a dream: unhurried, with a soft smile, with that graceful manner that’s hers alone. In her gaze — that quiet light that warms you even in the coldest winter. A light that cannot be forgotten, just like a first touch or a final farewell.

Ia Gargarateli Street is not just a name on a sign. It is a confession. A sign left by fate, as if the city knew my secret long before I did. As if Tbilisi itself had woven her name into its streets, its gardens, its jasmine-scented evenings. As if Ia were not a woman, but spring itself — a spring that once blossomed and stayed here forever. A spring that became a street.

I stand on this street and think: love is everywhere. It can hide in the curve of a lamppost, in the shadow of an old chestnut tree, in the cracks of ancient walls where wild vines grow. It’s in the aroma of coffee from a tiny window, in the voice of a street violinist, in the smile of a woman hurrying home. And if you pause, fall silent, and truly listen — you can hear her name. Not only in the air, but deep within yourself.

Ia… Your name is written on the map of Tbilisi just as it is written on the map of my soul. It is like a password known only to me. A reminder that even the shortest word can become eternity. And if I ever forget why I live — I will simply return here. To Ia Street. To remember how it all began.