There was a time when loving Harris felt easy.
Not loud. Not chaotic. Not the kind of love people screenshot and post with long captions.
Just easy.
We didn't live together. That was intentional. I liked my space. He respected it. We rotated weekends without ever formally discussing it.
"Last week was yours," he would say casually on Thursdays. "So this week is mine."
It never felt possessive.
It felt structured.
On Fridays, I packed lightly. A small overnight bag. Skincare. A change of clothes. Maybe heels I wouldn't wear but liked having options. I liked that I could leave if I wanted to. I liked that loving him didn't mean dissolving into him.
He wasn't flashy.
He didn't post me every week.
He didn't call me "wifey" in public.
But he showed up.
And consistency can feel more romantic than grand gestures.
Sometimes he'd appear at my apartment before work with breakfast balanced carefully in his hands.
"You need to eat properly," he'd say, stepping inside like he already belonged there.
"I eat properly."
"You eat selectively."
He'd stand there watching me take the first bite like he needed proof that I was taken care of.
It felt… safe.
Evenings at his place had rhythm.
Low music playing from his speaker. The smell of whatever he decided to experiment with in the kitchen. City lights blinking beneath his balcony like they were part of our routine too.
"You're quiet," he'd say when I leaned against the railing.
"I'm thinking."
"About work?"
"Sometimes."
He would nod like that made sense.
He never told me I was too ambitious.
Never said I intimidated him.
In fact, once, while we were watching something mindless on TV, he muted it suddenly and said:
"My house will be done soon."
"The one in Spintex?"
"Yeah." He looked at me sideways. "Once it's finished, you'll move in. Then we'll get married. No more packing bags."
He said it like it was already decided.
Not dramatic.
Not on one knee.
Just inevitable.
"What if I like my autonomy?" I teased.
"You can have both," he replied calmly. "Stability and autonomy."
At the time, that sounded like partnership.
Like maturity.
Like alignment.
My parents liked him.
My friends didn't have horror stories about him.
He didn't have close female friends.
"I just think men and women being 'just friends' complicates things," he once said.
"And I'm the exception?" I asked.
"You know you are."
Being the only woman he let close felt like security.
We weren't dramatic lovers.
We were steady.
And I liked steady.
Because steady feels adult.
Steady feels like something you can build on.
I didn't know then that calm can fracture quietly.
Not with shouting.
Not with obvious signs.
But with small shifts you convince yourself don't matter.
And the dangerous thing about calm is this:
You don't question it until it's already gone.