"Memories," you'd say with a soft smile, holding up the half-finished page. And there I was, in pencil and shadow, my expression captured so perfectly it made my chest ache.
It became our little ritual—me asking, you drawing. And each time, I knew that to you, I was not just someone you loved. I was home.
We built our days from simple joys. Mornings spent on the balcony with coffee and the sound of the city waking around us. Afternoons in small bookstores where we wandered the aisles hand in hand. Evenings filled with laughter, with music, with your sketches scattered across the kitchen table as I tried, hopelessly, to cook something decent.
"This is love," I'd whisper to myself sometimes, as you danced with me barefoot in the living room, my head resting against your chest, the world beyond our walls forgotten.
And it was.
It was us.