The future did not arrive with a clear outline.
There was no map laid out between us, no guarantees waiting to be signed, no timeline that promised certainty if we followed it carefully enough. Instead, the future hovered—quiet, unfinished, asking to be imagined rather than decided.
For the first time, that didn't terrify me.
We talked about tomorrow in fragments. In sentences that began with maybe. In dreams spoken softly, as if saying them too loudly might scare them away. Sometimes the future appeared in practical questions—work, visas, distance, time. Other times, it slipped into ordinary moments, like wondering what mornings would feel like if we woke up in the same place more often than not.
We didn't pretend it would be easy.
Distance still existed. Life still demanded things from us separately. There were realities we could not romanticize away. Loving each other did not magically erase responsibility, fear, or the unknown. But something had changed in how we faced it.
We no longer asked the future to prove itself before we believed in us.
Instead of asking, Will this work?
We began asking, How do we keep choosing each other while we figure it out?
That question felt kinder. More honest.
Sometimes I imagined a future where the waiting was over—where love no longer had to travel through screens and time zones, where presence was physical and ordinary. Other times, I imagined nothing at all, choosing to stay inside the present because it was already full enough.
Uncertainty no longer felt like a threat.
It felt like space.
Space for growth. For patience. For becoming people capable of sustaining what we felt, not just feeling it deeply. We were learning that the future doesn't need to be rushed into existence. It needs to be lived toward.
There were still moments of doubt.
Moments when fear whispered old questions—What if love isn't enough? What if timing never aligns? What if wanting doesn't lead to arriving? But fear no longer controlled the conversation. It was allowed to exist without being obeyed.
We learned that dreaming doesn't mean demanding outcomes.
It means allowing hope without attaching it to conditions.
The future, we realized, isn't a destination waiting somewhere ahead of us. It's something shaped quietly by repetition—by how we speak, how we listen, how we repair, how we choose again after misunderstanding or exhaustion.
Whatever tomorrow becomes, it will be built from these moments.
From patience practiced daily.
From courage shown in conversation.
From love that continues not because it's certain—but because it's intentional.
We don't know yet where this path will lead.
But for now, that's enough.
Because we are not standing still.
We are moving—together—toward something not fully defined, but deeply desired.
And maybe that is what faith in love looks like.
Not certainty.
But willingness.