How It Begins (Again)

This time, it’s not a spark—

but sunlight, slow and sure,

filling the room before you even notice.

No grand declarations,

just your coffee cup

finding its place beside mine

without asking.

We don’t rewrite our pasts,

just laugh at how they led us here—

to your cold feet tangled in the sheets,

to my terrible singing in the shower,

to the way you still kiss me goodbye

even when I’m half-asleep and grumbling.

Love, this time, isn’t a wildfire.

It’s the steady glow of a hearth—

something to return to,

something that keeps.

And when they ask how we knew,

we’ll say it wasn’t a moment,

but a thousand ordinary ones:

The laundry folded in silence.

The way you hum off-key.

The nights we didn’t need words

to say *I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.*

Maybe the best love stories

aren’t the ones that start with lightning,

but the ones that learn

how to stay.