It began with the rain. This wasn’t the kind of polite, gentle mist you could ignore while keeping your chin up. No, this was a deluge that announced its arrival with a startling boom of thunder, crashing down as if the sky itself had finally broken. I was only about halfway through my delivery shift. The bag of groceries sat on the floor of my tired old scooter, and I still had three more destinations on my list.
My name is Evan. I’m 23 years old, just an ordinary person trying to pay the bills by delivering food for a local service. I don’t hate the work. It’s straightforward and predictable. A person places an order, I deliver it, they offer a brief smile and a thank you, and our interaction is over. But on this particular day, that familiar routine fractured, and something new found its way in.
My final stop before the storm fully unleashed its fury was at a house concealed behind a line of unckempt hedges. It had a white porch with blue shutters that stirred a faint unplaceable memory. I knocked twice on the door and stepped back, standing without an umbrella, the hooded sweatshirt I always wore becoming drenched in less than a minute.
Then the door opened and she appeared. She was older than me, but not old. perhaps in her mid-30s or early 40s. Her hair was gathered in a casual bun with a few strands gently framing her face. She possessed a serene and gentle expression, the kind you see on someone untroubled by storms or silence. Her sweater appeared cozy, and she was barefoot, standing on the gleaming hardwood floor as if the tempest outside was a world away.
Oh my goodness, you arrived just in the nick of time,” she remarked with a welcoming smile. I awkwardly presented the grocery bag, careful not to let water drip onto her doormat. “Grocies,” I managed to say, feeling brilliant. She let out a soft laugh, took the bag from me, and then hesitated. “You’re completely soaked. Would you like to come inside? At least until the rain lets up a little.
I paused. This was against protocol. Most customers would shut the door as soon as the delivery was confirmed on the app. Yet, she moved aside, holding the door open as an invitation. There was something in the way she looked at me, not with pity or anxiety, but with a simple calmness, that made me accept.
I entered her home, wiping my shoes as well as I could. The house was filled with the scent of cinnamon and some kind of herb. Books were neatly piled by the sofa. A warm lamp cast a gentle glow from a side table. And a dog bed was situated in the corner, though its occupant was nowhere to be seen. “You can hang your jacket on that hook,” she offered.
I nodded and did as she suggested, watching the water pool on the mat beneath it. “Ta,” she asked. “Or perhaps something a bit warmer.” I politely declined. I’ll just wait here for a moment. Thank you. I didn’t realize the rain would come on so quickly. She went into her kitchen and came back with a towel, handing it to me without saying a word.
As I was drying my hair, I saw her observing me with a pensive expression. “Have we met before?” she asked unexpectedly. “You seem familiar.” I looked up, taken aback. “I don’t believe so. I mean, I was raised in this area and just moved back. I used to live down the road next to the old Malister place.
Her expression shifted, becoming softer. You aren’t John Turner’s son, are you? I blinked in surprise. Yes, that’s my father. A warm, nostalgic smile spread across her face. He used to give me a hand with my garden. I remember you. You were constantly climbing the trees or riding that small red bicycle. You even collided with my mailbox one time.
I chuckled, embarrassed. That was definitely me. I’m pretty sure I still have a scar from that. She laughed too, a sound that was both gentle and sincere. I’m Clara. I lived here before moving away for a time. I returned last year. Divorce. She stated the word casually without any trace of bitterness as if it were just a fact of life.
I’m sorry to hear that, I said. She simply shrugged. It’s what happens. Sometimes things just cease to function. It doesn’t mean the entire time was bad. I nodded, uncertain of what to say. We found ourselves in a silence that didn’t feel uncomfortable. Outside, the downpour intensified. Inside, there was a strange sense of peace.
She grabbed a blanket from the sofa’s back and draped it over the armrest closest to me. “It’s clean if you need to warm up.” “Thank you,” I said, feeling the chill from my damp clothes. I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, and for a fleeting moment, I felt like a visitor in a different existence, one that wasn’t consumed by hurried deliveries and worries about rent.
So, Evan, she began taking a seat across from me. What’s your story these days? Are you still climbing trees and demolishing mailboxes? No, I deliver groceries now. It keeps me occupied and well, dry usually, I said. Apparently, she teased, gesturing toward my soaked shoes. Usually, I chuckled. Today is an anomaly.
We continued to talk about nothing profound, our favorite television shows, the weather, the changes in the neighborhood. She told me about her dog, who was apparently cowering under the bed upstairs, terrified of the thunder. She mentioned that she worked from home, handling freelance interior design projects.
Mostly, I help people make their spaces feel like home again after a separation, she explained with a ry smile. A bit ironic. I listened, taking in the small details. The chipped mug on her coffee table. The way her hand would rest on the couch’s fabric as she spoke. She had a quiet way of being open without revealing everything all at once.
I found it appealing. At one point, she got up, went to the window, and gently pulled back the curtain. “Still coming down,” she murmured. Then she turned back to me. You know, you were such a kind child, always helping your father, always so inquisitive. You still observe people with that same look. I lifted an eyebrow.
What look is that? She smiled softly. As if they matter, as if you’re genuinely seeing them. I was at a loss for words. I wasn’t accustomed to being noticed in that way, not by customers or by strangers. She returned to the sofa but remained standing behind it, her fingers resting on the upholstery. I don’t typically do this, she said after a pause.
Invite people in, talk so much, but something about today feels, I don’t know, safe. I nodded slowly. I feel that, too. The rain didn’t cease for another 20 minutes. When it finally subsided to a light drizzle, I reluctantly stood. I should probably get going. I have one more delivery to make. She accompanied me to the door.
I took my jacket, which now felt much heavier with water. As I was opening the door, she hesitated behind me. Hey, Evan. I turned. Yes. She bit her lip for a moment, then said. If you ever want to stop by again, not for groceries, just if you need a place to dry off, you know where I am. I smiled. Thank you. I might just do that. I stepped out into the gentle rain, the street shimmering under the soft glow of her porch light.
I looked back one last time. She was still in the doorway watching me leave. And for the first time in what felt like a long while, I didn’t feel like just another delivery driver. I felt seen. I rode away, soaked through, but warmed by a feeling I couldn’t quite articulate. I didn’t realize it then, but that house behind the hedges would become more than just a stop on my route.
It would mark a turning point, and that was just the beginning. The rain had let up by the time I completed my final delivery, but my thoughts had not. I kept replaying the moment Clara said, “You still look at people like they matter.” It wasn’t something you hear every day, especially not directed at me.
And the way she had stood there, not in a flirtatious or uncomfortable manner, just genuinely grounded, it stayed with me. I tried to dismiss it, riding home through wet streets that mirrored the city’s lights. But even after parking my scooter and climbing the stairs to my apartment, the image of that soft porch light at her house lingered in my mind.
My apartment was dark and still. The low hum of the old refrigerator my only greeting. I stripped off my wet hoodie, threw it over a chair, and stared at my phone’s blank screen for some time. No new orders, no messages, no diversions. Just the lingering warmth from the towel she had given me and the memory of her voice still resonating in my chest.
I didn’t send her a text. I didn’t have her number, but I remembered the house, the number on the door, the shade of the shutters, and that look in her eyes, one that didn’t seem intended for a stranger. The next few days were a blur of errands and noise, more deliveries, more superficial conversations, more of the usual, but she continued to surface in my thoughts in quiet moments.
Passing by a flower shop, I found myself wondering what kind she might prefer. Hearing jazz in a cafe, I recalled the soft music from her speakers and how it filled the silence rather than combating it. I didn’t know what to make of these thoughts. I was just a young guy delivering groceries. She had a full life, a home, a business, a dog.
But the feeling persisted. It wasn’t quite a crush. It was more subtle, like entering a warm room after being out in the cold for too long, rediscovering a comfort you’d forgotten. A few days later, I found myself near her street again. I had a delivery two blocks away, and after I finished, I paused.
I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence that I was just passing through, but my scooter had already stopped in front of her hedges before I consciously made the turn. The porch light wasn’t on this time, but the house looked just as I remembered it, soft, still, and familiar. I didn’t approach the door. I just sat there for a moment, the engine idling, looking at the place that had quietly rearranged something inside me.
Then, just as I was about to leave, the front door opened. Clara stepped out, holding a small trash bag, barefoot once more, wearing what appeared to be pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. She didn’t notice me at first, but when she turned and saw the scooter at the curb, she paused for a split second.
Then, she smiled that same calm smile. “Evan,” she called out, moving toward the edge of the porch. I cut the engine and dismounted. “Hey,” I said, suddenly, feeling how absurd I must look, loitering at the end of her walkway like some awkward teenager. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just in the area.
” She didn’t seem disturbed at all. “You’re not,” she said gently. “Actually, I was just about to brew some tea.” “Would you like to come in?” It wasn’t a leading question. There was no pressure in her tone, just a quiet invitation like the last time, but this time felt different. I nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Inside, the same fragrance of cinnamon, pine, and something warm welcomed me.
She led me into the kitchen and filled the kettle while I leaned uncomfortably against the counter, not knowing what to do with my hands. I was wondering if I’d see you again, she said without turning around. Really? Not many people idle by my porch light like that. I smiled a little sheepishly. You remembered? I remember a lot, she said simply, placing two mugs on the table.
We sat and talked. This time our conversation wasn’t about the weather. She inquired about my route, whether the app treated its drivers fairly. I shrugged. It’s a job. Not glamorous, but it just about pays the bills. She gave a small nod. My ex used to say that anything without benefits wasn’t a real job.
Her voice wasn’t bitter, just reflective. But I’ve always believed it depends on the person doing the work. Some people contribute value just by their presence. you seem to be one of them. I wasn’t sure how to reply to that. Such compliments were rare in my world. After a moment, she shifted the conversation, telling me more about her design work and how she loved rearranging furniture as a child.
Her eyes lit up as she spoke about color palettes, textures, and old furniture pieces with character. I listened, captivated not so much by the subject, but by her passion for it. It was as if she believed in beauty for its own sake, as if she constructed warmth while others built walls. Eventually, the kettle whistled.
She poured the tea and handed me a mug. Still prefer herbal or are you ready for something stronger? She teased. I laughed. Let’s live on the edge. Surprise me. It turned out to be a spiced blend I couldn’t identify, but it warmed me from the inside. We sat on the couch again, the same blanket draped nearby.
She didn’t offer it this time, and I didn’t feel I needed it. The atmosphere between us was already warmer. Then something unexpected occurred. Her dog, Luna, trotted into the room, a small mut with floppy ears and drowsy eyes. He sniffed the air once, then came over to me and settled down by my feet as if I had always belonged there.
Wow, she said. He usually takes a while to warm up to new people. I reached down and scratched him behind the ears. I guess I passed the vibe check. She smiled again, this one softer. I guess you do. We didn’t talk much for a while after that. The jazz music played quietly in the background again.
The rain had been gone for hours, but inside her house, time seemed to move more slowly. Not stalled, just quieter. I glanced at her and noticed she was looking at me, not with analysis or judgment, just observing like before. And I recalled what she had said about how I looked at people. Perhaps she was doing the same thing now.
When it grew late, I stood up to leave. She didn’t try to stop me, just walked with me to the door. I put on my jacket, half hoping she would say something. And just as I stepped outside, she did. Evan. I turned. She hesitated for a moment, then said. You don’t have to wait for a storm next time. I smiled. What should I wait for? She tilted her head thoughtfully.
Nothing. Just come whenever you feel like it. I rode home again that night, more slowly this time, my thoughts louder than the engine. Something had shifted. I couldn’t put a name to it yet, but I knew the next time I knocked on that door, it wouldn’t be by chance. It was a Tuesday when I saw her next. Not because I had planned it, or so I told myself, but because I finished a route in the vicinity, and her words echoed in my mind.
You don’t have to wait for a storm. I stood by my scooter for a minute, debating if I was crossing some unspoken boundary, but ultimately I found myself walking up her stone path again, helmet under my arm, the porch light already casting a glow as if it had been expecting me. I knocked gently. A few seconds passed. Then the door swung open and there she was.
Clara barefoot as usual, her hair pulled back, wearing a long cardigan and holding a coffee mug with both hands. Her eyes instantly softened. Hey, she said as if it hadn’t been a week, as if I had just stepped out. I was just thinking about you. I smiled suddenly unsure of where to put my hands. Really? Mhm. She hummed, stepping back. Come on in.
I baked cookies. They’re not my best work, but they’re warm. I laughed, the tension in my shoulders easing. That’s a potent combination. Her house smelled of cinnamon and something buttery. The jazz was absent this time, replaced by the quiet hum of an evening, a silence that felt deliberate. Luna was curled up on the rug again, his ears twitching as I entered.
Clara handed me a cookie before I even had a chance to sit. Oatmeal chocolate chip. Don’t judge. I didn’t have enough sugar for the traditional kind. I took a bite. It was perfectly soft in the center, just the way I liked it. Do you always welcome people with tea and cookies? I teased. Only the ones who know to knock at just the right moment, she replied.
I sat on the edge of the couch and she settled into the opposite corner. So she began looking at me with that curious open expression of hers. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before. I blinked. That’s a big ask. She grinned. It doesn’t have to be profound, just true.
I considered it for a moment, then said, “When I was 13, I used to record songs from the radio onto a cassette tape and pretend to be a DJ. I’d do fake weather reports and give shoutouts to madeup callers.” She laughed, not with mockery, but with pure delight. Please tell me you still have those tapes. I shook my head. Lost them in a move, but I remember some of the fake names I used. One was DJ Zuul.
She laughed even harder. Zuul. Oh, we are definitely calling you that from now on. I groaned. Instant regret. Then it was her turn. She told me about signing up for a ceramics class once solely to flirt with the instructor only to end up falling in love with pottery instead. He was dull, she said, but the clay wasn’t.
Her stories weren’t grand, but they painted a portrait of someone who had lived with an open heart, someone who knew herself, and that quality made her more captivating than anyone I had ever met. After some time, our conversation dwindled into a comfortable stillness, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.
She reached for her blanket, unfolded it, and laid it across both of us without a word. “Is this all right?” she asked. “Yeah,” I replied softly. “It is.” I became aware then of how close we were. Our knees were touching beneath the blanket, her arm mere inches from mine. I could feel the steady, calm rhythm of her breathing.
The air had a different quality, charged, but not uncomfortably so. She leaned back slightly, resting her head against the couch cushions. I like that you come here, she said. Even when you don’t have a reason to. I like coming here, I responded. It feels like the world slows down inside your living room. She smiled at that.
Then almost without thinking, I added, you’re not what I expected. What do you mean? She asked. I paused, trying to find the right words. You seem like someone who has everything figured out. a home, a business, a dog that actually listens. But when I’m talking to you, it feels like we’re both just figuring things out as we go.
Her expression changed, becoming softer. That’s probably the kindest thing anyone has said to me in a long time, she said. Because I definitely don’t have it figured out. I just know what feels right. And this, she gestured vaguely at the space between us. This feels right. It was getting late. I knew I should leave, but neither of us made a move.
She leaned a little closer, resting her hand on the edge of the blanket between us. Not touching me, just near. Do you remember when you said, “I look at people as if they matter.” I asked. She nodded. I think you do the same. You just don’t say it aloud. She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, “I don’t often let people in here.” “Not like this, but I’m glad it was you.” I swallowed, unsure what to say. And then she said it, her voice quiet, gentle, almost like a secret. If you ever need to warm up again, “I have more than just tea.” My breath hitched, not because it was suggestive, but because it was vulnerable and honest, the kind of offer people only make when they truly mean it. I stood slowly, placing my mug down.
I should let you get some sleep, I said. Probably. But you’ll come back. I know, she whispered. At the door, she reached out and adjusted my collar slightly as if it were important. “Take care, Zuul.” I groaned, but couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Not a chance, she said before softly closing the door behind me.
The night air was cool, but I didn’t feel it. The streets were deserted as I rode home, the city asleep. And somewhere in that silence, I had a realization. I wasn’t just passing through anymore. I was choosing to be there. And maybe, just maybe, she was choosing me, too. The next few weeks unfolded like a dream I didn’t want to end.
It was real enough to feel, yet so delicate that I was afraid to hold on too tightly, fearing I might break whatever was blossoming between us. Clara and I weren’t an item in the conventional sense. We hadn’t given it a name. We didn’t discuss what it was, but it was clear I was more than just a delivery guy, and she was more than a woman I had met in a storm.
I began to stop by more often, never with an announcement or a plan, just showing up, and she never acted surprised. It was as if her door had been open long before I knocked. Sometimes I’d arrive with leftover pastries from a bakery that gave me extras at the end of my shift. Other times, I’d bring her dog a new chew toy I’d found cheap at a gas station.
And sometimes, like the Wednesday night her power went out again, I appeared with a flashlight and stayed just to ensure she wasn’t alone in the dark. We played cards by candle light that night, and she told me stories about her ex-husband. “She never spoke with bitterness, only with the factual tone of someone who had moved on, but hadn’t erased the past.
“He never truly cared for this house,” she mentioned, placing a card on the table. said it was too quiet, too hidden away, but I loved it for that very reason. It felt like a place where things could heal. I nodded. It does feel that way. She looked at me then, her eyes reflecting the candle’s flicker. Do you feel like you’re healing, Zuul? I hesitated.
I don’t know, I admitted. Maybe I wasn’t aware that something needed healing until now. She offered a small smile and didn’t press further. She never did. And that was part of why I kept coming back because with her, silence was never a threat, but an invitation. One rainy Saturday, I arrived soaked once again.
She didn’t even greet me, just handed me a towel and a dry t-shirt that likely belonged to an ex, though I didn’t ask. I changed in the small guest bathroom, listening to the gentle jazz that drifted from her living room speakers. When I came out, she was curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book. “You look better already,” she said. “You’re like a plant.
You just needed some water and a clean shirt.” I laughed and settled into the corner opposite her. It had started to feel like my designated spot on that couch. We did nothing particularly memorable that evening. She read her book, and I closed my eyes, listening to the rain. Luna would occasionally shift in his sleep, and for a time, the world outside that small house ceased to exist.
But the comfort also scared me because I didn’t want to become reliant on something I wasn’t sure I deserved. One night, after she had fallen asleep on my shoulder during a movie, I quietly got up, grabbed my jacket, and left without a word. No note, no text. I just needed to breathe. I rode for almost an hour through the city, the cold wind hitting my face as if trying to remind me of who I was before all this softness entered my life.
But no matter how far I went, I couldn’t escape the image of her house in my mind. The warm light, the crooked candles, her hand resting gently on my knee during a conversation. The next morning, I showed up again. She opened the door, looked at me for a moment, and then said, “You left.” I nodded. “Yeah.” “Why?” I struggled to find the words.
I got scared, I said. Of what? That maybe I’m falling into something I can’t define. And I’ve never had anything like that before. It’s easier to disappear than to risk messing it up. Her expression didn’t show anger. She didn’t raise her voice. She just nodded slowly. You don’t have to run, Zuul. Not here.
Not from me. I stepped inside and for the first time in a very long while, I believed it. That night, we sat on her kitchen floor with cups of tea and talked about everything and nothing. Our favorite childhood snacks, places we dreamed of visiting, the worst jobs we ever had. She told me she once worked at a call center and was fired for being too honest.
I told her about the summer I tried busking downtown with a guitar I could barely play. Somewhere between laughing about our shared lack of musical talent and trying to recall the name of her middle school crush, I realized something. I didn’t want to go back to my old apartment anymore. Not just because hers was cozier, but because that space with its chipped mugs and well-loved books had begun to feel more like home than any place ever had.
I think she sensed it, too, because a few days later, she handed me a small key with a blue tag. “No pressure,” she said. “It’s just annoying when you have to knock and I’m in the bath.” I stared at it as if it were made of solid gold because in a way it was. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t have had it made if I wasn’t.” So, I took the key. And though I didn’t use it that night, I carried it with me every day after, like a promise I wasn’t quite ready to voice. Things didn’t magically transform into a fairy tale. There were still awkward silences, times when she would get lost in her thoughts, and I wouldn’t know whether to ask what was wrong or just sit with her until she was ready to speak.
There were days I would get stuck in my own head, wondering if I’d said too much or not enough. But the difference now was that we stayed. We stayed through the silence, through the questions, through the storms, both literal and metaphorical. One evening, I brought over a photo I found of me as a kid helping my mom in the garden.
Clara looked at it for a long time. Then she smiled. You were always kind, she said. Even before you had any reason to be. That night I slept on the couch and in the morning I woke to find her already in the kitchen flipping pancakes. I thought I’d make breakfast this time, she said. I rubbed my eyes and leaned against the door frame.
You didn’t have to. I know, she replied. But I wanted to. And maybe that’s what everything between us had become. Not grand gestures or big declarations, but small decisions made over and over again. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. She didn’t need to make me pancakes. I didn’t need to keep coming back. We didn’t need to sit on the floor drinking tea like teenagers afraid of saying the wrong thing.
But we did it anyway because it mattered because we mattered. And that more than anything was why I stayed. The days melted into weeks and the weeks started to form patterns that felt less like a phase and more like a life. There was no single moment when things officially changed between us. No grand declaration, no perfectly timed kiss.
It was just a quiet gathering of trust, of shared routines, and of half-finished conversations that we would always come back to. I began leaving my things at her place without a second thought. My favorite mug claimed a permanent spot next to hers. My extra phone charger stayed plugged in by her bedside, and eventually my clothes migrated drawer by drawer into her space.
It didn’t feel like I was moving in. It felt more like I was blending into something we were both building without a blueprint or any pressure. One evening after work, I came home with sore feet and a damp jacket. It had rained again. It seemed our story had a way of summoning the weather. I found her on the porch curled up with a book, a blanket wrapped around her.
She looked up and smiled in that way that made me forget the cold. Tough day? she asked. “Not anymore,” I said, and I meant it. We didn’t feel the need to fill every silence. Sometimes we would just sit there as the sky grew dark and the neighborhood lights began to flicker on. Her dog, Luna, would stretch out between us, content to exist in our shared quiet.
But it wasn’t all seamless. We had our fumbles. I once forgot to let her know I’d be late during a snowstorm, and she spent two hours imagining the worst until I finally arrived with frozen fingers and a sheepish apology. She once mentioned her ex during a vulnerable moment, and I unintentionally withdrew, the weight of comparison feeling heavier than I anticipated.
But each time we talked it through, not in a scripted movie perfect way, but in the messy real way people do when they care enough to preserve something. She never tried to mold me into someone I wasn’t. She just asked that I remain honest, and I never tried to fix her sadness when it surfaced.
I just sat beside her and listened until it passed. One Sunday afternoon, she asked if I wanted to help her repaint the back room, the one she’d used for clients when she was a full-time nail technician. “I’m thinking of turning it into a reading room,” she said. “Maybe a small studio, too.” I looked at the chipped paint and half empty shelves.
“Let’s do it,” I said. We spent the entire weekend clearing it out, debating paint colors, and laughing at old photos we discovered in a forgotten drawer. By the time we were finished, the walls were a soft, dusty green. “It looks like hope,” she whispered, stepping back to admire our work. “And somehow it did.
” That night, as we lay in bed, she turned to me and asked, “What do you think this is, Zuul?” between us. Her voice wasn’t filled with uncertainty. It was simply curious, as if she wanted to name the thing we’d been cultivating without scaring it away. I took a long breath. I think it’s something we didn’t expect, but don’t want to lose, I said.
And I think I don’t care what we call it as long as it’s real. She reached for my hand under the covers and gave it a gentle squeeze. It’s real, she said. That’s all I need to know. We didn’t celebrate anniversaries or major milestones, but one day exactly a year after I first delivered groceries to her door in the rain, she greeted me with two mugs of tea and a smirk.
Happy accidental anniversary, she said. I blinked. You remembered? She shrugged. It’s hard to forget the day a stranger walked into my house and never really left. We toasted with our mismatched mugs and watched the rain fall again. This time from the inside together. The same storm, but an entirely different story.
As the months went on, her parents began to soften. Not all at once and not completely, but enough. They started sending birthday cards and polite text messages. I wasn’t trying to win their approval, and I think they sensed that. I was just there and I wasn’t going anywhere. I even fixed their microwave when it broke over the holidays and her father gave me a nod of approval.
You’ve got steady hands, he said. Takes patience. I just smiled. It was never about winning. It was about consistently showing up. We kept building that life. It was never defined by flashy moments or grand declarations. It was about Tuesday night dinners, walking the dog in the cold and cleaning the gutters together while she teased me about my fear of heights.
It was the time I repaired her front steps, and she cried, not because of the steps, but because no one had done something like that for her in a long time without being asked. It was the way she would reach for my hand at the grocery store without looking or leave little notes in my lunch bag on days I had an early shift.
And one night as we lay on the couch watching some old movie we weren’t really paying attention to, she turned to me and said, “I never thought this would be my life.” “What did you think it would be?” I asked. “Lonier,” she whispered. “Colder.” I thought maybe the best parts were behind me.
I gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. “They’re not,” I said. “They’re just different. But they’re still good. Maybe that’s all any of us truly wants deep down. Not a perfect love or a grand romance, but someone who chooses us again and again without needing a reason. Someone who stays when the rain starts, who shows up with pastries, who makes the small things feel significant just by being a part of them.
And maybe love isn’t something you find in fireworks or poems. Maybe it’s in the way two people grow toward each other without realizing it. Until one day you look up and there’s no more space between you. That’s where we are now. Still growing, still learning, still choosing each other.
The rain has become a symbol not of sadness, but of new beginnings. And every time it pours, I think about that first knock, the warm doorway, and her voice saying, “You can stay if you want.” I stayed, and it was the best decision I ever made.
