The days had begun to stretch, each one folding into the next like pages of a diary we were writing together. It was late afternoon when we stepped into the part of the garden where the cherry blossoms had started to bloom. Petals rained from the sky like whispers of the past, soft and fleeting. You reached for one and held it in your palm before placing it in my hand.
"It's like they're falling just for us," you said, your voice barely louder than the breeze.
We sat beneath the trees, watching the pink world shift around us. I leaned my head against your shoulder, and for a moment, time ceased to exist. We talked about dreams big ones, small ones, the kind that didn't need to make sense. And then you started drawing the scene, each stroke of your pencil capturing more than just the physical; you sketched the quiet emotion, the stillness, the love.
The sun dipped lower, and you turned the sketch toward me. It was us, beneath the blossoms, the lines tender and full of life. I kissed you soft, deep, grateful. Because somehow, you always knew how to make the invisible feel real.