Nayla never said the word forever out loud.
Not because she didn't believe in it. But because it always felt like a word people used too easily, like a promise made without knowing the weight it carried.
But lately, she had begun to redefine what it meant on her own terms.
Forever wasn't grand declarations or perfect timelines.
It was remembering how someone took their coffee.
It was choosing the same person on your best day and your worst.
It was knowing when to speak, and when to sit in silence without fear.
And on this particular Sunday, her version of forever looked a lot like laundry.
—
They had decided to spend the day together doing nothing remarkable.
Groceries, laundry, tidying up his apartment, and maybe a movie if they didn't fall asleep halfway through.
But as Raka stood in front of his washing machine, holding up one of her sweaters and asking, "Is this the one I'm not supposed to put in the dryer?" Nayla felt her heart skip in the strangest way.
Because here he was caring about a fabric label like it was sacred, because she had told him once.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "That's the one. You remembered."
"I may be impulsive," he said, tossing the sweater gently into a laundry bag, "but I'm not suicidal."
She laughed.
Later, they sat on the floor, folding clothes into small piles. Raka's socks (all mismatched), her blouses, their shared collection of tote bags from local bookstores.
He handed her a t-shirt. "How come you never leave anything really yours here? Like a drawer full of clothes? A mug with your name on it?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. I guess I've always been cautious. I don't like to leave pieces of myself behind unless I'm sure they'll be… welcome."
He looked at her then, eyes steady.
"You've always been welcome here. From day one."
She smiled. "I believe you. It just takes me a little longer to arrive."
"And I'm still here," he said. "Waiting at the door."
She folded the last of the laundry and placed it in the basket.
Then she stood, walked to her bag, and pulled out a small, faded paperback.
She handed it to him. "Here."
He looked down at the book. Letters to a Young Poet.
"I've carried this around for years," she said. "Never left it with anyone. It's kind of like my anchor."
"And you're giving it to me?"
"I'm not giving it away," she corrected. "I'm placing it here. Like… leaving a small lighthouse behind."
Raka held the book like it was fragile. Like it mattered. Because it did.
"That's your version of forever, isn't it?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
"A book left on a shelf. A mug in a cabinet. A sweatshirt hanging next to yours."
"And me still asking about your sweater labels," he added.
She laughed again, but her chest felt warm settled.
Forever wasn't about staying the same.
It was about choosing, again and again.
Even in the ordinary. Especially there.
And as they placed the book on the shelf together, neither of them said forever.
But it hung in the room anyway.
Unspoken.
Understood.