Act VIII: The Ache Between Moments
There is a kind of love that does not wait for perfect time.
It finds you in your bruises,
in the soft bend of exhaustion,
in the small voice that calls for you when you are certain you have nothing left to give.
It presses into your ribs like a whisper—
Don't fall asleep yet. Someone is waiting.
And sometimes, what aches most is not the absence,
but how much the body remembers:
the weight of another in your arms,
the shape of a face buried against your collar,
the quiet expectation of a kiss not yet given.
This is not the kind of love that shouts.
It tiptoes through the door after training,
it blushes behind the wall,
it counts kisses like prayers
and answers longing with presence.
And though the world asks for strength,
and duty calls with steel in its hands—
still, there is a child waiting with sugar on her lips
and a number in her heart.
Twenty kisses.
Not enough.
But a start.