A Romance Written in Ink

I think our love

would have been better

if we had met in another time.

Maybe when people wrote letters

instead of leaving someone on read.

Maybe when missing someone

meant sitting at a desk

and putting your feelings on paper

because there was no easier way

to reach them.

I imagine you then.

Sitting by a window

with a cup of coffee going cold,

your sleeves rolled up,

a pen between your fingers,

trying to find the right words for me.

And I imagine myself

waiting for your letter.

Not impatiently.

Just softly.

The kind of waiting

that makes the heart believe

something beautiful is coming.

Our romance would have been written in ink.

Your name would live

between the pages of my journal.

I would write about the way

you looked at me

when you thought I wasn't paying attention.

I would write about your laugh,

your hands,

the little things you did

without realizing they mattered.

And maybe, years later,

I would find those pages again

and smile at how much

I once loved you.

I like to think

we wouldn't have rushed.

We would have taken walks

without checking the time.

We would have sat somewhere quiet

and talked about everything—

childhood dreams,

our fears,

the places we'd like to visit,

the people we used to be

before life changed us.

You would tell me stories

I had never heard.

I would remember them.

Because that's the kind of lover

I think I am.

I remember things.

The song you said you liked once.

The way your voice changed

when you were tired.

The food you always ordered.

The exact moment

you looked at me

and made me feel

like I was the only person

in the room.

I would probably write that down too.

Not because I needed proof

that you loved me,

but because some moments

are too beautiful

to trust to memory alone.

I imagine leaving little notes

inside your books.

Thinking of you.

Come home soon.

I love you.

Three simple words

that somehow never become ordinary

when they belong to the right person.

And maybe you would keep them.

Maybe you'd fold them carefully

and put them somewhere safe.

Years later,

when our hair had started turning grey,

we would find those little pieces of paper

and laugh at how young we were.

Then you'd look at me

the same way you did

all those years ago.

And I'd know.

Some love doesn't disappear.

It simply grows quieter.

It learns the shape of ordinary life.

It becomes morning coffee

and shared silence.

It becomes your hand

finding mine beneath the table.

It becomes knowing

when the other person needs space

and when they simply need a hug.

It becomes staying.

I think that's the part

I want most.

Not the grand romance.

Not roses every Friday

or expensive dinners

or perfect photographs.

Just you.

Choosing me

on the ordinary days.

On the days when I'm tired.

On the days when you're frustrated.

On the days when love feels less

like fireworks

and more like sitting beside each other

in comfortable silence.

If our story were written in ink,

I wouldn't want it to be perfect.

I'd want the smudges.

The crossed-out sentences.

The pages where we disagreed.

The moments when we almost gave up

but decided to try again.

Because maybe that's what makes

a love story real.

Not perfection.

But persistence.

Two people continuing

to write each other

into their lives.

And when the last page finally comes,

I hope there is still ink left.

Enough for one final sentence.

Not we were once in love.

But—

We loved each other until the very end.