Kisses in the Dark, Promises in the Morning

It was always midnight when he arrived. Wrapped in silence, carrying the weight of the world in his eyes. He never knocked. She always left the door slightly open, like an invitation to the things they never said out loud.

They never spoke of love. But everything between them was drenched in it. In how he looked at her like she was something he thought he'd lost. In how she touched him like she knew he would vanish by morning.

They were never lovers in the daylight. Never names saved in each other’s phones. Just two souls slipping between shadows, meeting where time moved slower, where reality looked away.

He kissed her like he was afraid it might be the last time. She kissed him like she believed it would never end. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, like he was scared she might break. Hers was bold, like she was scared he might.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to. The silence between them said everything. His hand on hers was an apology. Her breath against his neck was forgiveness. They fit like pages from different books that somehow told the same story.

When he slept beside her, it was never deep. Just enough to rest, not enough to dream. She would watch him, wondering who he was when he wasn’t here. Who he smiled for. Who he lied to. What parts of himself he gave to others.

He always left before sunrise. Every single time.

Sometimes he kissed her forehead. Sometimes he just whispered her name. And sometimes, he just walked away quietly, like a ghost she had imagined. She never stopped him. She never asked for more. But every morning, she hoped.

She told herself not to fall. That he was a storm passing through. That his love was borrowed, not promised. But hearts don’t listen. Not at midnight. Not when he touched her like she was his home. Not when he made her feel seen in a way no one else ever did.

He never made promises with words. But his eyes spoke of maybes, of what-ifs, of a future that would never arrive. She held onto those glances like lifelines. She knew they weren’t forever—but they felt like it in the moment.

One night, he didn’t come.

She waited. Hours passed like winters. She stared at the door, half expecting it to open, half praying it wouldn’t. But it never moved. And neither did she.

The next night—nothing. The one after—silence again. The air grew heavier. The room colder. Even the shadows felt lonelier.

On the sixth morning, she found a note. Folded. Unlabeled. Tucked under her door like a final breath.

"I never knew how to stay. You were the safest thing I ever touched, and I didn’t know how to hold you without breaking us both. I will remember you in every silence, in every sunrise I watch alone. I hope you find someone who brings you love in the light, not just the dark."

She read it once. Then again. And then she burned it. Not out of anger—but to feel the warmth one last time.

Some nights, she still wakes at midnight. Still looks at the door. Still listens for footsteps that never come. She doesn’t cry anymore. She just remembers.

Sometimes, in dreams, he visits her again. No words. Just presence. Just the feeling of being wanted for a moment.

But she no longer waits.

She no longer hopes.

Because she finally learned—some people are meant to teach you the difference between love that stays and love that only visits when the world is asleep.

And sometimes, the most painful promises are the ones whispered in the dark—only to disappear with the morning.

Still, in the quiet hours, she smiles. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because for a little while, under a sky full of stars, she was kissed like a secret and loved like a song.

And even if it ended before the sun could see it—it was still real.