finding love on the mountain top

The mountain didn't look like a place where love would happen, It looked sharp and aloof, a spine of stone rising out of the morning fog, more interested in the weather than in people. I climb it for quiet. For the distance. For the simple, selfish wish to feel small enough that my thoughts would finally stop shouting.

The air thinned as I went higher. Pines gave way to rock, and rock to wind. Each step became a small promise to myself: keep going. even when you legs argue, even when turning back would be easier.

By the time I reached the summit, the world below had soften into a watercolor of valleys and rivers, all the hard edges blurred away.

I sat on the sun-warmed boulder and let the silence settle into me. That's when I noticed I wasn't alone.

You were there already, standing a little apart, facing the horizon like you'd been waiting for it to say something back. We exchanged the kind of smile strangers share when they've earned the same view.

No rush. no performance. Just a quiet recognition: you made it too.

We talked the way that people do when there's nowhere else to be and no reason to pretend. About the climb. About the wind. About the strange courage it take to want something better and not know what it looks like yet. Your laughter carried easily up there, unburdened by walls or ceilings, and I realized ow long it had been since I'd heard a sound like that without bracing myself.

The sun edged higher, spilling gold over the peaks. In that light, everything felt honest. There was no past tugging at my sleeve, no future demanding answers. Just two people sharing altitude and breath, letting words come and go like clouds. When it was time to descend, neither of us rushed. We walked together, matching pace without discussing it, careful over loose stones, occasionally reaching out a hand-not because we had to, but because we could. Somewhere between the summit and the tree line, it hit me; love didn't hit me like thunder. It arrived like this. Quiet, steady. A warmth that made the long way down feel lighter.

I'd climbed the mountain to lose myself. Instead, at the top of the world, I found someone who made the path forward feel clear.

By the time the trees wrapped around us again, the spell of the summit hadn't broken-it simply changed shape. The wind softened into birdsong. The vast silence became an easy companionship. We talked more now, the kind of talking that wanders without getting lost.

Childhood places. Old dreams we'd quietly shelved. The ways life had surprised us, not always kindly, but honestly.

At a narrow switchback, the trail dipped, slick with fallen needles. I slipped. It was nothing dramatic-no cliff, no danger- but your hand was there instantly, steady and sure. You didn't make a joke of it or a fuss.

You just held on until I found my footing again. Something about that stayed with me. The mountain had taught us respect; you taught me trust.

We stopped at a creek to drink and rest.

Sunlight broke through the canopy in scattered coins, and you traced one with your finger in the water, watching it wobble and reform. "Funny" you said, almost to yourself, " how the hardest climbs give you the clearest views."

I knew you weren't just talking about the mountain.