In the midst of a weary night, we find ourselves wide awake, two souls brimming with words yet unsure how to set them free. I can hear the gentle lilt of your laughter from behind the phone screen, almost as if it were beside me, in sync with our shared longing as we gaze hopelessly at our chat, waiting for another message. Love courses through our veins, but we grapple with labeling it, fearing that any other name might dilute its essence.
Beyond our windows, the city roars with life: the momo vendor’s sizzling pan, the elderly beggar at the traffic light, children chasing after a white labrador, your cherished coffee shop, and my favored nose pin — yours, one I yearn to gift. Every facet of the city embodies our aspirations. Our thumbs, though fatigued, refuse to surrender to the beckoning backspace key. It’s a poetic dance — the way you tuck away a stray strand of hair, adjust your glasses, and how I steal glances in response — as we explore every conceivable avenue to express what we both already know.
You confess your disdain for Sunday evenings, and I predict mine will extend beyond its limits. Your beloved web series tells a tale you’ve longed for but never encountered, while my treasured story is one I yearn to live with you. We stand so close to claiming this connection as our own that it almost seems distant. The irony lies in how love, when it’s this profound, finds its own exquisite rhythm. Though there’s an abundance of words waiting to be spoken, we are content to listen. Our love feels as though it has aged a decade, and I vow that one of these days, I’ll share the secret that you’ve occupied my thoughts long before I consciously thought of you. The city shows no sign of slumber, and neither do we.
