♡ A Love That Sees Me Through the Storm
"I wrote last night," I murmured, flipping through the familiar pages of my diary, my thumb grazing the worn edges that felt like old skin. The paper still smelled faintly of ink, warm and familiar. "You asked me once… what kind of husband I'd want someday."
The room smelled of butter and sugar. The soft sizzle of the stove faded as she turned the knob, extinguishing the flame with a quiet click. My sister leaned her elbows against the counter, chin cradled in her palms, watching me with a knowing tilt of her head. Her messy bun bobbed slightly as she shifted, sunlight spilling over her shoulders like it was drawn to her.
"Alright then," she said, her voice light but her eyes curious, sparkling. "Hit me with your fairy tale."
I hesitated, biting my lip as if the words I had written were too fragile to be spoken aloud. But something in her gaze urged me on—like she already knew what I'd written, like she wanted me to hear it for myself.
So I opened the diary wide, pages falling like wings, and began to read aloud. My voice shook at first, but soon steadied, carried by something stronger than courage—truth.
---
*"I want a husband who looks at me like I'm magic—
even when I'm tired, messy, and full of doubts.
I want fucking passionate love, where I am love itself—
time, attention, affection, attachment, priority.
A love fierce enough to burn, tender enough to heal.
Possessiveness, obsession, loyalty, honesty.
He should have kind eyes,
and quiet strength—
the kind that makes me feel safe just standing next to him.
Someone who doesn't try to fix me,
but sits with me in the storm.
Someone who stays,
even when thunder splits the sky,
even when I fall apart.
I want sleepless nights and endless conversations,
a bond unbreakable—
who loves my flaws,
who lifts me when I am heavy with failure.
I want a home in his arms,
a soothing embrace,
a melody that never fades.
I want him to be my universe,
the light in my darkness,
the beat of my heart.
I don't care if he's rich,
I don't care if he's powerful.
I want his heart honest, soft, humble.
His anger rare.
His love loud."*
---
I paused, breath caught in my throat. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath with me.
Her expression softened, stunned, then melted into the kind of smile that feels like a hand over a wound—gentle, protective. "Wow," she whispered.
I looked up, suddenly shy, cheeks warming. "You think it's too much?"
She shook her head slowly, strands of hair falling loose from her bun. "No," she said with conviction, her lips curving. "I think it's perfect."
Relief slipped through me like sunlight. I laughed softly, closing the diary and pressing it to my chest as if it were a shield. "No weird mafia freaks allowed, right?" I teased, needing to break the seriousness before it swallowed me whole.
"Strict ban," she agreed immediately, grabbing a spatula and raising it like a sword. "We'll make them fill out applications."
I gasped, feigning outrage. "Applications? Like a job interview?"
"Exactly. Questions about their cooking skills, anger management, whether they believe in love letters, whether they'd rub our feet when we're tired…"
I clutched my stomach, laughing. "You're impossible."
"You're welcome." She winked, her spatula still poised like a knight's blade.
We both dissolved into laughter. The sound filled the kitchen, wrapping around the shelves, curling into the corners, echoing like a hymn. For a moment it was so easy—so light—that I almost believed it would last forever.
---
Later, when the laughter settled into comfortable silence, I flipped the diary open again, fingertips brushing over the ink.
"Want to hear more?" I asked quietly.
She nodded, eyes curious, patient, as if she would sit there all day just listening.
I read another fragment, written in a late-night scrawl:
"Even if I forget myself one day,
I want him to remember me.
To look at me and still see magic
where others see emptiness.
Even if my mind crumbles,
even if my hands shake,
I want him to stay—
to be my anchor
when I have none."
---
Her hand brushed mine, a small squeeze, grounding me. I swallowed hard and turned the page again.
---
"And if tomorrow comes without me—
if I'm only a shadow in her memory—
I pray the world is kind.
I hope she finds a love
that holds her like sunlight,
that sees her as a universe unfolding.
Even if I'm not there to braid her hair,
to scold her for skipping meals,
to laugh with her in this kitchen,
I want her joy to outlive me.
She deserves mornings painted in peace,
nights wrapped in safety,
and a heart that whispers forever.
Even if I'm gone—
let her be happy,
let her be loved enough
for the both of us."
The words blurred as my eyes filled. My voice cracked. I closed the diary halfway, as though the ink itself burned.
She didn't speak. She just leaned her head against mine, warm and steady, her silence full of love.
"You write like you're leaving me behind," she whispered at last, her voice breaking the fragile air.
I shook my head quickly. "No. I write like I want to stay forever. But if I can't…" My throat tightened. "I want you to have everything."
Her lips curved into a trembling smile. "Idiot. You're everything already."
My laughter came out watery, choked. I pressed the diary harder against my chest, as if it could stop the ache blooming inside me.
The sunlight shifted then, tilting as if the world itself were leaning. Shadows stretched across the kitchen floor, swallowing the golden glow.
Her smile began to blur. At first I thought it was my tears. But no—the edges of her face smudged, dissolved, as though she were painted in watercolor and rain had begun to fall.
"No," I whispered, panic rising.
She reached for me, her hand flickering like smoke. "Don't forget me…"
Her voice was faint, underwater.
I lunged, stretching my hand toward hers, but the warmth slipped through my fingers. The diary in my arms grew heavier, unbearably so, then suddenly vanished altogether, leaving my arms empty.
The kitchen warped. The light dimmed. A soft breeze swept through, carrying a metallic tang that turned my stomach cold. My pulse spiked—because I knew that scent. Blood.
A shadow brushed the corner of my vision.
The laughter was gone. The dream-house talk dissolved. All that was left was the echo of her voice and the hollow ache of loss.
I sank to my knees, clutching air, clutching memory, clutching the ghost of everything I had just held.
And then I felt it.
Not her.
Him.
Heavy, unseen, yet undeniable. A presence that pressed against me, possessive, claiming, binding. The kind of weight you can't shake, even in sleep.
Even in the dream, even in this fragile sanctuary I had built of sunlight and pancakes, he was there. Watching. Waiting.
My chest tightened. My hands shook. The edges of the dream crumbled into black, leaving only one terrible truth pulsing in my veins:
I had already been seen.
Already been claimed.
And no matter how sweet the dream, how bright the sunlight, how tender the laughter—