The days blurred beautifully, each morning a canvas waiting for our brushstrokes.
You filled your sketchbooks with portraits some of Whiskers mid-leap, some of me reading with a hand resting gently on your knee. You captured the way the light played with my hair, the way my eyes softened when I looked at you.
Each line, each shading, was a quiet declaration of belonging.
Each page whispered, "We are here. We are real. We are forever."