And suddenly, it was just him and me.
We talked about movies, food, our worst jobs. We laughed like we already had a story together. And when it was time to leave, there was no kiss. Just a silent promise, hanging in the air, that we’d meet again.
And we did.
Once. Then again. And again.
Two months later, we were unpacking boxes in a tiny apartment with walls that needed paint and windows facing a leafless tree. It was a mess. But it was ours.
He hung his first diploma on the wall. I framed a photo from a catalog shoot. He fixed things I didn’t even know were broken. I cooked dinners that sometimes tasted good and sometimes like punishment. And through laughs, fights over who fell asleep on the couch, and burnt toast breakfasts—we built something. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
