The next few days were a whirlwind of settling in turning empty rooms into something that felt like us. You filled the space with your art, splashes of color spreading across blank canvases, while I arranged books on the shelves, recreating the quiet refuge we had left behind. With every brushstroke, every rearranged piece of furniture, the apartment became less of a house and more of a home.
The city was vast, waiting to be explored, so we ventured out. Hidden cafes tucked between towering buildings, streets painted with murals, bookstores that smelled of old paper and endless stories. We walked hand in hand, learning the rhythm of this place, making it our own.
Evenings belonged to us, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Music hummed in the background as we sat together on the floor, laughter spilling into the quiet, our dreams weaving into the fabric of this new life.
One night, as we stood on the balcony, you held out a small, paint-splattered notebook. "Sketch something," you said, your eyes filled with challenge and mischief.
I laughed, but you were serious. So I did. It was messy, nowhere near your level, but you smiled like it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. And in that moment, I realized it didn't matter where we were. As long as we had each other, we had everything.