
You start with small things:
A toothbrush in the wrong cup.
A shared closet that somehow
*still* leaves all your sweaters wrinkled.
The way she steals fries off your plate
but replaces them with the last bite of hers
because she knows you like it best.
Then come the storms:
The slammed doors.
The nights on the couch.
The terrible, necessary fights
where you learn love isn’t about never breaking—
it’s about choosing, again and again,
to put each other back together.
One day you’ll wake up
and realize her snoring
has become your favorite lullaby.
That the crease between her eyebrows
when she reads the news
is a landscape you know by heart.
That home isn’t a place anymore—
it’s the way she says *"You’re ridiculous"*
while laughing into your shoulder.
This is how forever happens:
Not in fireworks,
but in the quiet accumulation
of a thousand *I choose you’s*
whispered over burnt toast,
through head colds,
across grocery lists,
in the dark,
year after year.



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