There was a time when happiness didn't scare me. When mornings began with her hair tickling my shoulder, the smell of coffee drifting through the apartment, sunlight cutting across the red curtains in ribbons of gold.
That was before I started believing that joy always had a cost.
Back then, it was simple. Easy. Real.
It was autumn when we found the gloves.
We'd gone to a small vintage market that set up every Saturday along the river—half junk, half hidden treasure. Emma loved it, of course. She said the things people leave behind have stories if you listen close enough.
I was thumbing through a box of old records when she called me over.
"Look," she said, holding up a pair of leather gloves. Deep red, supple, perfectly fitted to her hands. "Aren't they beautiful?"
"They're… very red," I said, which made her laugh.
"They're classic. Elegant. You have no taste."
"I have plenty of taste. It's just not screaming at me."
She rolled her eyes and slipped one on, flexing her fingers. "See? They were made for me."
And she was right—they were. They hugged her hands like the leather remembered her shape. She held both up to the light, studying how they caught the sun.
I remember smiling, shaking my head. "You look like trouble."
She winked. "I am trouble. You just like pretending you can handle it."
I bought them for her, half as a joke, half because of the way she looked at them—like they were more than just gloves.
She kissed me for it. Right there between a stack of cracked records and a display of chipped porcelain cups. The vendor pretended not to notice.
The gloves became her favorite thing.
She wore them everywhere once the weather cooled—the gallery, the park, even around the house sometimes when she forgot to take them off. She said they made her feel "pulled together," like armor that was still soft.
"Every queen needs her crown," she said one night when I teased her about it.
"They're gloves, not a crown."
"Then you've never been cold enough," she said, slipping them off and pressing her bare fingers against my neck. They were ice. "See? They're magic."
I remember taking her hand and kissing it, just to warm it. "You're ridiculous."
"And you love it."
"I do."
And I did. Completely.
That winter was the best I can remember.
We spent Christmas at her place, even though she claimed to hate the holiday. We decorated a tiny, crooked tree she found on sale for five dollars, stringing it with old ornaments and bits of red ribbon she'd saved from her paintings.
On New Year's Eve, she made me promise we'd always celebrate together, no matter where life took us.
"Even if we're apart?" I asked.
"Then especially," she said. "We'll look at the same sky and pretend we're under it together."
She was so sure of things. So certain that love could outlast distance, time, even the things that scared me most.
We started talking about moving in together.
It wasn't a dramatic conversation—it just happened one morning while she was making coffee.
"You spend half your time here anyway," she said, casually, like she wasn't flipping the ground beneath me. "You might as well bring your things."
"Are you sure?"
She glanced back at me, mug in hand. "I've never been more sure of anything."
So I did. Slowly, at first. Books. Clothes. My grandmother's old watch.
It felt… right. Like the space was adjusting to fit me, too.
We had our routines. I'd write late into the night while she painted, the sound of brushes and keys filling the room with a quiet rhythm. On Fridays, we'd go to our favorite diner, the one with the broken jukebox and the owner who never charged us for coffee refills.
She'd wear her red gloves when we walked there, even if it wasn't cold. I used to tease her for it, but the truth is—I loved how they looked against her skin, how they caught the light, how they seemed to complete her.
When she held my hand through them, it felt like she was anchoring me to something real.
We fought sometimes, of course.
She was impulsive, emotional—she'd throw herself into everything she cared about. I was cautious, quiet, always calculating the risk before the reward.
"You live like you're waiting for permission," she said once during an argument. "What are you so afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid."
She laughed softly. "You're always afraid. You just hide it better than most."
And then she kissed me, as if that was her way of saying she forgave me for it.
That was her gift—turning conflict into connection, making me feel like being seen wasn't something to fear.
One night, months later, we were lying on the floor, surrounded by half-finished paintings and empty wine glasses. She was tracing patterns on my chest with her fingertip, her gloves tossed somewhere nearby.
"What's the first thing you noticed about me?" she asked.
"Your laugh," I said without thinking.
"Not my eyes? Or my incredible wit?"
"No," I said, smiling. "It was your laugh. It sounded like it knew something I didn't."
She laughed again, softly. "And what about you? Want to know the first thing I noticed?"
"Do I?"
"That you looked like someone trying very hard not to be seen."
I met her gaze, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.
"Did it work?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Not even a little."
If I could freeze a single moment in time, it would be that night—the two of us tangled in the glow of the city lights, her laughter drifting through the open window, the smell of turpentine and rain in the air.
No ghosts. No guilt. Just us.
Two people who believed, for a while, that love could last forever.
And that red—her red—was something worth keeping close.