Through Fire and Flood

They said we wouldn’t make it

too different, too far, too fragile.

They said the world would test us,

and oh, it did.

With storms that cracked the sky,

and silence that split our hearts

like fault lines waiting to break.

We met in a season of scars.

You were light where I was ash.

I spoke in whispers;

you answered in patience.

I had walls made of rusted iron,

but your hands found the hinges

like you’d known them all your life.

Do you remember the night we almost broke?

The rain on the roof like war drums,

the words we threw like knives?

I turned away.

You didn’t.

You stayed.

Not because it was easy.

But because some loves

don’t back down just because it hurts.

We’ve walked through loss

the kind that makes your lungs forget

how to breathe.

We’ve held each other

in the dark of not knowing,

when the doctors shook their heads,

when money ran dry,

when the world kept spinning

while ours stood still.

But still

you reached for my hand,

and I reached back.

They say love is soft.

They’re wrong.

Ours was forged in fire

not the kind that burns,

but the kind that forges steel.

You taught me love

isn’t the big gestures,

the perfect days,

or the right words.

It’s showing up

when everything is falling apart.

It’s choosing each other

when the road is cracked

and the map is gone.

One day, we’ll be old,

and our skin will wrinkle

like the pages of the life we wrote.

And when they ask,

“How did you last?”

I’ll smile and say:

“Because we decided,

> again and again,

that love wasn’t just a feeling.

It was a vow we made

in every broken moment.”

So here we stand—

not untouched,

but unbroken.

Weathered, yes.

But still woven

tight as ever.

Love didn’t save us from the storm.

It taught us how to walk through it,

side by side,

never letting go.

And that,

in the end,

is how we won.