One day at a time

The world's still dark outside. The kind of dark that feels like it's holding its breath. There's a rawness to these early hours, unfiltered and brutally honest. And there she is, next to me, a serene contrast to my restless mind. Even in sleep, she's a force, a presence that fills the room.

I study her, the way her hair fans out on the pillow, a mess of tangles that somehow looks perfect. There's a rhythm to her breathing, a quiet assurance in each breath. It's hypnotic, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Love. What a loaded gun that word is. It's a messy, chaotic thing, but with her, it feels different.

The first time I saw her, it wasn't some poetic moment. No soft lighting or orchestral music. It was raw, real. She was all laughter and sharp edges, a paradox wrapped in a smile. And damn, that smile... that smile.

Now, lying here with the first hints of dawn creeping in, I think about all the roads we've taken in such a short time and the ones we've yet to explore. I think about the past and the future and how it all seems to be converging, making sense.

And I think about the word 'love'. How much I mean it and how much it scares me.

She stirs, a quiet hum escaping her lips as her eyes flutter open. She reaches for me, her hand finding my chest, as she curls up against me. The warmth of her body chases away the chill of the morning.

"Morning," she murmurs, her voice sleepy.

"Morning," I reply, holding her closer and wrapping her in my arms.

"What time is it?" she asks, her breath hot against my chest.

"Early."

She doesn't speak, so we let the world wake up around us. Eventually, she pulls back, her eyes finding mine, and I see the storm clouds in them-the questions bubbling just below the surface. I just want to hold her, to shield her from whatever the day throws at us. But I know that I can't. So I just watch her and let her words fall where they may.

"What do we do now?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

It's a loaded question. One that means so much more than the words themselves. She's asking about what happens now and where we go from here.

I don't have an answer.

"One day at a time," I say, running a hand through her hair.

"Is that enough?"

"It has to be," I reply, cupping her face in my hands. She nods, a hint of a smile forming on her lips.

I kiss her. A slow, sweet kiss and I feel the heat rush through my body. She responds, her body arching against mine, and I pull her closer, needing to feel the press of her skin against mine. It's slow, and I let myself get lost in her again.

"One day at a time," she echoes.

Days blur together. We find ourselves moving through the world, caught in a current of unspoken promises and a hope that refuses to die. We make plans for the future, ones that involve forever and always. But we both know that time is relentless.

On a rainy afternoon, as we sit by the window, watching the world go by, she presses her head against my shoulder and sighs:

"Are you happy?"

I don't respond right away. Instead, I look down at her, her eyes wide and searching. And in that moment, I know. I am happy. The kind of happy that can't be measured or quantified.

"Yes," I say, kissing the top of her head. "Are you?"

"Yes," she breathes, that familiar smile forming on her lips. "So happy."

I never want the moment to end. But it will. The world waits for nothing. It moves relentlessly forward, and I know I'll have to face it, whatever it holds. But for now, in this room, with her, I let myself breathe.

She tells me that she loves me, and I tell her the same, and we hold onto each other, afraid of letting go but letting ourselves love.

One day at a time.