By the afternoon, we had settled into a rhythm. The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee, the sound of soft music drifted through the air, and you had found your place by the large window, sketchbook in hand.
I watched as your pencil moved across the page, your brows furrowed in concentration, completely lost in your world. There was something mesmerizing about the way you created how every line, every shade, seemed to carry emotion, as if you were pouring pieces of yourself onto the paper.
Curious, I walked over, peeking at the page. "What are you drawing?"
You smiled but didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned the sketchbook toward me, revealing what you had been working on.
It was us sitting together in this very room, the light catching the moment just right. There was a softness in the details, a quiet intimacy that only you could capture.
I was silent for a moment, taking it all in. "It's beautiful," I murmured, feeling something deep stir within me.
You reached for my hand, your fingers lacing with mine. "It's just the beginning."
And as I looked at the sketch at the way you saw us, at the love woven into every stroke I knew that this, too, was a promise. A canvas of forever, waiting to be painted with everything we had yet to live.