When the Light

The first time I saw you,

it wasn’t cinematic—no slow fade, no thunder,

just a glance caught mid-sentence,

like the world skipped a beat

but played it off.

You laughed too loud at nothing important,

and I remember thinking: this is someone

who doesn’t rehearse.

We were both pretending not to notice

how the space between us

kept losing distance.

You kissed me like time didn’t exist,

like the clock had called in sick

and every second

belonged to us alone.

Your hands,

confident, warm, unsure,

a language learning itself

as it spoke.

We didn’t fall in love,

we built it.

Out of sarcasm and phone calls at 2AM,

out of arguments about movies

we’d already forgotten the names of.

Out of silence that didn’t ache.

But,

there was a Tuesday

you stood in the kitchen,

pouring coffee like a ritual,

and I felt the world change key.

Not louder. Not softer.

Just… clearer.

And that’s the moment it hit,

real love isn’t a spark.

It’s the match you strike

long after the storm has passed,

because you still want the fire.

Still believe in the warmth.

Still reach for someone’s hand

even when yours are full

of your own heavy pieces.

You stayed.

And I started learning

that not all magic is loud,

that sometimes it’s just

knowing someone’s breath

like it’s part of your own.

We’re not perfect,

you leave cabinets open,

I rewrite every goodbye

like it’s a first draft.

But we keep showing up,

every damn day,

even when the light

gets strange.

And maybe that’s the miracle:

to be chosen, again and again,

not because we’re flawless,

but because we’re still becoming

something worth holding.