That night, you painted in silence, the only sound the soft swish of your brush on canvas. I stayed on the couch, scribbling thoughts in my journal, watching your silhouette move in the soft lamp glow. You were in your world, and yet somehow, I was a part of it.
When you finally stopped, you looked at me—but didn't say a word. Instead, you turned the canvas around. It was a sketch of us: you, mid-laugh; me, caught in a moment of wonder. It wasn't perfect it was real.
"I didn't plan it," you said softly. "It just… became this."
I stood, walked to you, and held your face in my hands. "You see me in ways I don't even see myself."
You smiled, resting your forehead against mine. "That's what love does, doesn't it?"
We fell asleep wrapped in each other's warmth, the painting drying quietly in the corner, capturing not just a moment but a truth we had always known.
The city pulsed outside our window, but inside, everything was still, everything was ours.