some sort of lookback

god, the reverence of being in a room with her. the quiet kind of romance that ruins you gently. time did not pass;

it unraveled - slipping out the back door while i watched her stir her coffee, watched her lips part without a word, and still heard something sacred in the silence.

the hours were not ours to begin with, but we stole them anyway. and in that theft, we made something tenderly illegal-

a glance held too long; a smirk traded like a secret beneath a table meant for strangers; legs brushing under the guise of accident; when our hands were too full - with plastic cups, with nerve, with the quiet ecstasy of restraint.

we built a language of silence that spoke louder than love ever dared. not the empty kind - not the silence that punishes. no, this one was warm- 

like a mother holding something newly born, already afraid the world might break it. it moved through the room like breath, soft and careful, and in it i felt more seen than all the world's confessions.

that little table by the window - god, it remembers us. it remembers the first time silence didn't hurt; the first time silence sat down with us and said, "you're safe here."

i thought then, there'd be no slammed doors. no sharp departures. only the quiet alignment of two people who had once been unmoored-

and who, for a stolen moment, found each other like stars finding their place in the dark, without anyone needing to name the constellation.