A Love Written in the Stars

Alex met Jenny on a crisp autumn afternoon, the type of day when the wind picked up fallen leaves and danced them in a slow waltz across the streets. He had slipped into a tiny bookstore to avoid the chill, and there she was — sitting cross-legged on the floor and paging through an old poetry book.

At first she didn’t see him, so absorbed in the words. But Alex was unable to look away from her. The way she suckled a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear, the way her lips curled slightly as she read — she was beautiful in an effortless way.

“That’s got to be a good book,” Alex finally said, his voice warm with curiosity.

Jenny looked up, surprised. Her dark hazel eyes studied him for a moment, then she smiled. "You could say that. Neruda never disappoints."

Alex grinned. "Ah, poetry. “Not a skill a lot of people have, but I assume you’re the exception?”

She gently closed the book and rises to her feet. “There’s a way that words find the hearts that need them,” she said. “Are you a poetry reader or just pretending to impress someone you don’t know?”

He laughed. "A bit of both."

That was the beginning.

Seasons of Love

Their love had occurred in seasons and cycles.

They wrapped up for winter and walked through the city’s snowy streets with their hands in each other’s coat pockets. They had spent hours in that same bookstore, whispering poems to each other, their breaths mingling in the cold.

Spring meant adventures — midnight drives to nowhere, snap road trips to the places neither had been. Their danced in the rain, refusing to care who saw them. Jenny had taught Alex how to paint, but he was awful at it. It wasn’t about the outcome, she insisted, but the feeling.

Summer was golden. They would spend whole days at the beach, writing in the sand and having the waves wash it away. Jenny would gather seashells, declaring that each one had a story, and Alex would act as if he believed her. They spread out on the carpet on hot nights, counting stars and discussing the cosmos like it was material for their own private playground.

And then came autumn again. Their second autumn together. The season that had united them.

Except this time, something had changed.

The Storm

There are no storms that love, however perfect, can get through.

One evening, beneath a sky streaked orange and crimson, they sat on a park bench, the cool air swirling about. But Jenny was far away, her fingers coiling a loose thread on her sweater.

“I got into the artist residency,” she finally said.

Alex’s heart skipped. He knew she had applied — he had told her to. But the program was in Paris. A year-long commitment.

“That’s great,” he said, and his tone revealed the pain in him.

Jenny glanced at him then, her face a mix of enthusiasm and grief. “Alex, I don’t know what this means for us.

He swallowed hard. “It means you’re going to Paris and living your dream. And I’m back here with you, supporting you. No matter what."

Tears welled in her eyes. “But what if — distance?”

He took her hand and held it against his own tightly. "Then we let love decide."

A Love That Waits

In the final weeks before her departure, they savored every moment. They made promises, late-night calls, visits when they could, letters penned because they both believed in the mystique of ink on paper.

The day of her departure found them holding hands in the airport as if they would unravel if they released.

“You told me once that words find the hearts they need,” Alex whispered. “Jenny, we’re written in the stars. No matter the distance."

A tear slid down her cheek. “Then I’ll write to you daily.”

And she was gone with one last kiss.

Love, Across the Miles

The year folded in a haze of yearning and love. Letters from them filled with poetry and stories, with hopes and fears. The autumn leaves Alex had sent Jenny pressed were reminders of where they had come from. Jenny sent sketches of Parisian streets, small glimpses of the world she was in.

When she finally came back, when she stepped off a plane into his arms, it was like no time had passed at all.

“Did the stars pay us to have a happy ending? she said against the side of his shoulder.”

He withdrew a little, and gazed into the eyes that he had missed for that long. "They didn’t need to. We wrote it ourselves."

And with that, they started their next chapter — together.