Certain kinds of love didn't need declarations. The kind you found in the way someone poured your coffee just right, or queued up your favourite song before you even asked. And in the days that followed, Chris and I lived inside that kind of quiet, ordinary love.
We danced in the kitchen once, to some old playlist we'd made years ago—back when burning CDs was still a thing and we thought our feelings could fit into tracklists. It started as a joke. I found an old CD as I was organising a cabinet, from when we were teens.
As I showed Chris, it started as a joke, a teasing hip sway while I waited for the water to boil, but Chris had caught my hand and spun me around like we were at the wedding where we kissed for the first time, down by the waterfall.
Bare feet on tile, laughter echoing off the cabinets. I hadn't realised how long it had been since we laughed like that—like nothing was waiting to take it away.
