Where the Quiet

We didn’t plan to meet in the soft geometry of dusk—

you, orbiting somewhere between worry and wonder,

me, folded into the evening like unfinished music.

The city hummed like a warm throat,

lights stammered over puddles,

and your eyes said stay before your mouth remembered how.

We weren’t flawless,

but the flaws—like handwritten letters—made it feel

realer than scripted.

You laughed, and the world loosened a bit.

Somewhere between the corner bodega

and the cracked sidewalk near your apartment,

our fingers started speaking a new language—

full of pauses, permission, and unsaid promises.

A touch that didn’t ask for explanation

but offered one anyway.

—And here it shifts—

One morning, you didn’t knock,

just opened the door like you’d lived there

in a past life

and I believed it—

how else could someone arrive

so gently, so right?

We stopped explaining love in metaphors.

It wasn’t fire, or oceans, or galaxies colliding—

just you, putting your keys on the counter,

me, knowing where to find them when you forgot.

There’s something magical

about not needing magic to feel seen.

The surreal part?

That it’s this simple:

you wake up and still want to stay.

Not perfect.

But real,

and in this world?

That’s rarer than anything.