The First Date That Never Ended

You thought it would be awkward—

two strangers fumbling with menus,

trying too hard to be impressive.

But then she laughed at your terrible joke,

*really* laughed,

and suddenly you were just two people

who forgot to be nervous.

The café closed.

You kept talking on the sidewalk.

The streetlights flickered on,

painting her in gold,

and you realized—

with a jolt—

you’d stopped checking the time

an hour ago.

You walked her home.

(Or maybe she walked *you* home.

Neither of you remembers who suggested it.)

The city hummed around you,

but all you heard was the rhythm

of her voice,

the way her sentences curled at the edges

like well-loved book pages.

At her door,

you both hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to kiss,

but because you didn’t want

to ruin the perfect alchemy

of the night.

(You kissed anyway.

It tasted like hope

and peppermint gum.)

Now, years later,

when she tells the story,

she swears you tripped over your words.

You swear she spilled her wine.

The truth is,

you were both a mess.

But that’s the magic—

neither of you cared.

Some loves begin with fireworks.

Yours began with a quiet certainty,

the kind that sneaks up on you

like dawn breaking—

soft, inevitable,

and brighter than you ever expected.