We traveled together, hand in hand, across oceans and time zones, to a city that seemed to shimmer with possibility. The gallery was a place of beauty, with vaulted ceilings and walls that whispered stories to anyone who cared to listen. Your sketches filled the space—our hill beneath the stars, quiet moments by the window, the sunlight catching my smile.
I stood in the center of the room, surrounded by us, by our love captured in every stroke of your pencil. And when I turned to look at you, standing at the far end of the gallery, speaking softly with a stranger, I felt it all over again—the wonder, the ache, the endless love.
You caught my gaze then, and your smile lit up the room. It was the same smile you had given me all those years ago, beneath the stars. And I knew.
It didn't matter where we were—this city, our quiet apartment, the hill where it all began. You were my home.
Years passed, and our love deepened, growing like the roots of an ancient tree. We married on a summer evening beneath that very same hill, surrounded by friends and laughter, the stars coming out one by one to bear witness. You kissed me softly as the sun slipped below the horizon, and in that moment, time stood still.
"This is love," you whispered, your voice warm against my ear.
I smiled, tears slipping down my cheeks. "Oh, this is love."
And it was. It always had been.
We grew older, our lives filled with adventures and quiet moments, with laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. But no matter how much time passed, you still looked at me as though I was your greatest masterpiece.