The evening light poured into our room like soft honey, casting golden shadows across the walls. I found you sitting at our little writing desk, fingers brushing the edge of a drawer you rarely opened. When I asked what you were doing, you simply smiled and gestured for me to come closer.
Inside the drawer was a folded piece of parchment, aged by time and delicately bound by a ribbon. You said you had written something months ago a letter never meant to be read unless we reached this point: a life where love felt timeless, where even silence between us was comforting.
You handed it to me, and as I opened it, your hand stayed on mine. The words inside were gentle confessions, your fears when we first started, the day you realized you loved me, how the smallest things I did stayed in your memory like constellations in your sky. I looked up, unable to speak, and you whispered, "Now you know how long I've dreamed of forever with you."
And in that moment, I felt it not just the love you had for me, but the life you'd been quietly building through every word, every glance, every tender silence.