The rain had come and gone, leaving behind a world washed clean. The garden was damp, the wooden planks beneath us slick with the memory of water.
You sat cross-legged in front of me, your hands resting lightly in your lap, your gaze drifting toward the sky. "If you could freeze time," you asked, "would you?"
I tilted my head. "Depends. When?"
Your lips parted slightly, as if considering. Then you exhaled. "Now."
I studied you, the way the light caught in your eyes, the way your fingers absentmindedly traced the hem of your sleeve. "Why now?"
You smiled soft, knowing. "Because I don't want this moment to end."
My heart stilled for half a beat before picking up again, stronger. I leaned in, just enough for my forehead to rest against yours. "Then let's make it last."
You closed your eyes, breathing me in, and for that moment just that one—time didn't exist. The world outside didn't matter. There was only this. Only us.
And maybe, in some way, that was enough to make it last forever.