It wasn’t planned,
not really.
Just a Sunday,
like most of ours—
but softer somehow.
More sure.
More us.
We spoke of our future,
our summer house,
our family home,
our forever home—
a place where time could finally loosen its grip.
We cooked simply,
moving around each other
like we’d always known how.
There was no need to fill the silence—
it was already full
of everything we’ve become.
We walked as the sky changed its mind.
The rain came,
but we didn’t turn back.
We talked about the kids,
how they arrived in the world,
how we changed when they did.
We passed my old house,
and I told you how the shadows never frightened me—
how they were part of who I’ve always been.
Later, by candlelight,
we let a horror film flicker between us,
but all I noticed
was the way your arms held me,
like they always do—
so safe,
so certain,
like home.
And when the night settled,
you looked into me
like there was nowhere else you’d rather be.
No words,
just movement,
familiar and sacred.
Like we were made for this—
for these Sundays that feel like home.
I’ve never felt so heard.
So wanted.
And somehow,
even now,
I love you a little more
than I did the night before.