Where

Don’t say anything yet—just breathe,

like the quiet after laughter when no one’s ready to move.

I saw you across time,

as if memory could bloom in reverse,

as if we were always running toward this moment,

barefoot,

shoulders smudged with dusk.

Your eyes held storms that never made landfall,

full of reasons I couldn’t name,

but recognized in my chest like a second heartbeat.

We didn’t fall in love—we walked into it,

like stepping off a bus stop too soon

and finding home by mistake.

You said love isn’t fireworks—it’s friction,

sparks between mismatched puzzle pieces

forcing themselves to fit

because they want to.

And we do.

We do, even when the ceiling leaks on a Sunday,

even when silence feels like a stranger in our bed,

even when your anger curls at the edges of your voice

and mine forgets to be soft.

Then it shifts.

Not like thunder, not like revelation,

but like a kettle finally screaming—

a long-held truth spilling into steam:

We are not perfect,

but we are willing.

To build warmth from the cold cracks.

To believe again when belief feels ridiculous.

To keep choosing the messy,

aching, glorious us.

Sometimes, I hold your hand like a question.

You answer by staying.

And that’s enough—

no fireworks, just the slow burn of something real

and rare

and ready

to last.