There was a time when the future felt close enough to touch.
Not clear. Not planned. But present, like a light at the end of a street, we walked together. I didn't need details. Just the feeling that we were moving the same way.
This chapter belongs to that feeling.
We talked about small futures. Not the serious kind people announce, but quiet ones that slip out by accident. He said things like "next year" and "someday" without thinking. I caught those words and held them close, like proof.
Once, while we were waiting for a bus, he said, "If we're still here by then, we should try that place."
When.
Not if.
I wrote that word down later, afraid it might fade if I didn't.
Those days were gentle. We fell into routines that felt like home. Mornings were rushed but shared. Evenings were slow. Sometimes we cooked. Sometimes we didn't. It didn't matter. Being together was enough.
I remember one night clearly.
We were lying on the floor, lights off, city noise coming through the window. He talked about nothing important. Just thoughts passing through his mind. I listened, tracing shapes on the carpet with my finger.
At some point, he went quiet.
I turned to look at him. His face was soft, open in a way I didn't see often. Like he had forgotten to guard himself.
"I'm glad it's you," he said.
He didn't explain. He didn't need to.
Those words settled deep inside me. They felt solid. Safe.
That was the danger.
When love feels safe, you stop bracing yourself.
I started imagining longer futures. Not out loud. Only in my head. A shared place. A shared life. Ordinary days stacked together until they became something strong.
I didn't know then that hope can be fragile. It grows fast but breaks easily when time turns against it.
My diary from this time is full. Long entries. Warm ones. I wrote about his smile, his habits, the way he made even silence feel shared. I wrote like someone who believed she had time.
We still had moments of distance. Of course we did. No love is perfect. But they felt small then. Easy to step over.
If I could speak to that version of myself, I wouldn't warn her. Warnings change nothing. They only steal joy.
I would let her believe in almost forever.
Because almost is still beautiful.
And believing, even briefly, leaves its own kind of mark.