That morning, we did nothing.
And it was everything.
We stayed in bed long after the sun peeked through the curtains. No alarms, no plans. Just the warmth of the blanket and the sound of your breathing beside mine.
You stretched and smiled with sleepy eyes, and I felt something settle in my chest like the world could fall apart, and I'd still be okay as long as I had this.
We made breakfast slowly, danced barefoot on the kitchen tiles to a song only we could hear. The kettle whistled, toast burned slightly, and your laughter made even that feel right.
We spent the afternoon in the garden, not speaking much, just existing. You painted wildflowers growing along the fence while I read beneath the oak tree. Occasionally, you'd glance at me, and I'd smile because how could I not, with you in the frame of every perfect second?
That night, we didn't talk about yesterday or tomorrow.
We just held each other.
Time, for once, didn't rush us. It simply paused, long enough to say, "Remember this."
And we did.