That morning, sunlight spilled into our room in quiet streaks, golden and soft. You were already up, wrapped in a shawl, sitting by the window with a cup of coffee. I watched you for a moment your hair slightly tousled, your gaze lost in thought. It felt like watching the beginning of a poem that hadn't been written yet.
We didn't have a grand plan for the day. We cooked breakfast together, laughing when you accidentally dropped the spoon into the pancake batter. We walked barefoot in the garden, speaking in fragments and smiles. We cleaned the bookshelf, pausing every few minutes to read a line from an old favorite.
In the afternoon, you painted while I read next to you, both of us caught in the calm rhythm of togetherness. No big moments, no dramatic turns just a day filled with the kind of love that grows in the quiet.
As night fell and we curled up with warm blankets and soft music, I looked at you and whispered, "This... this is everything."
And you nodded, as if you had always known.