“You are the light I’ve waited for my entire life.”
For a long time, those notes came back crumpled or were lost entirely. Then, one afternoon, I found one neatly pressed and left on the counter. I unfolded it to find my own words preserved, clean and respected.
“You are the light I’ve waited for my entire life.”
“He kept it,” I whispered, my eyes stinging with tears.
While I prepared meals, I would narrate stories to him. Simple things, like the time I tripped over a stray kitten or the disaster when I tried to dye my hair and ended up looking like a pumpkin.
“It was a nightmare, Alan! Honestly, I looked absolutely ridiculous. I didn’t leave the house for seven days!”
He never said a word, but I noticed his shoulders tremble slightly, as if he were stifling a laugh.
“He kept it.”
I showed him the birds building nests on our porch, the changing shapes in the clouds, and the melodies that brought back memories of my own mother. His lack of words never felt like a wall. It felt like the presence of a deep listener, someone carefully studying how to feel safe again.
In time, Alan began to sit closer during our reading sessions. Soon, he was waiting by the door when it was time for me to find my keys. If I missed my scarf, he would silently hand it to me before we left.
