Chapter Eleven - A Glimpse of the Life We Built

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Glimpse of the Life We Built

THE DOG’S SNORING at the foot of the bed.
The candles are half-burned.
Dinner was simple. Pasta, garlic bread, and the salad we forgot in the fridge. Again.

The dishwasher hums in the background.
You’re brushing your teeth, singing off-key like you always do.
I’m lying here, watching the fan spin, feeling the air shift as you walk back into the room in my shirt.

You still steal them.
Even after all this time.

You climb in next to me, cold feet hunting for my warmth like it’s a game you never plan on losing.
I fake a dramatic yelp. You laugh into my neck.

It’s been years.
But it still feels like the first time you smiled at me over coffee.

We built this slowly.
With burnt toast and hard talks.
With gas station detours and Sunday morning pancakes.
With stubbornness, with softness, with a thousand quiet choices to stay.

You still drive me insane sometimes.
I still leave my socks everywhere.

But we know now.
We know how to hold it when it gets heavy.
How to come back when we drift.
How to love without holding breath.

You reach over.
Pull the covers up like it’s your job.
Say, “Goodnight, babe,” half-asleep, half-angel.

And I whisper back,
“There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.”

Because this isn’t a dream anymore.

This is the life we built.