The story moves forward, come wander the thread with me a little longer. ************* Part 8 It’s 6:00 a.m. Light is peeking; the world stirs lazily. Your breath rises and falls, calm and slow. I lie awake, wishing I could hold time just to kiss, and keep you a little longer. /// The city moved fast and relentless, yet my days had grown quieter. Work filled the hours, books and writing filled the evenings, and in the middle of it all I often drifted, staring past conversations into some place only I could see. Then there was Sam. His days unfolded among leaning stacks of books, the quiet hum of his computer, the soft lamplight lingering in the afternoon. The space held both his work and his rest without division. He often paused to share lines that stayed with him, words that made him laugh or ache. His voice was calm, steady, without the weight of performance. One late afternoon, we slipped out for coffee, the city moving in its usual restless tide around us. He walked beside me with a quiet ease, not needing to fill the air with words. When he spoke, it was about a book he had just finished, his thoughts tumbling out in a way that made me forget the noise of traffic and footsteps. Light filtered through the trees and caught across his face, softening his features. I thought how easily strangers might turn to look. He seemed unaware. His hand rested loosely around the coffee cup, fingers long and unhurried, as though even in stillness he carried a subtle certainty. His presence lingered without demand, as if it belonged entirely to itself. We talked late into the evenings, sometimes about nothing at all, sometimes about everything. Coffee, novels, work, the quiet strangeness of being alive. There was no garden light, no golden evenings, no enchantment in the air, only the ordinary comfort of being listened to. Its simplicity unsettled me. The days leaned toward him almost naturally. Evenings stretched into hours on the phone, and soon my Fridays ended at his door without me ever deciding they would. When the city pressed too hard, his apartment waited, warm with soft light, carrying the faint scent of books and brewed coffee. It fell into a rhythm, echoes of mornings that had come before. At 6:00 a.m., the day slipped in, his breath rising steady beside me, the warmth of him lingering in the sheets. I would lie awake wishing I could hold time still, just to keep him a little longer. I always left before the day could stretch too far, carrying the trace of him only as far as the drive home. Beneath the comfort, something pulled at me, a world I had not let go, a presence that never loosened its hold. I told myself it was habit, only the shadow of memory. Even then, I could not quiet it. One Saturday, when morning came and he asked if I would stay for breakfast, I found myself saying yes. What was meant to be a single meal became an entire weekend: slow mornings, afternoons heavy with books and music, evenings softened by laughter that came easier than I expected. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and low, as if time itself had chosen to remain indoors with us. The weekend stretched soft and steady, like time had eased its grip. Deep down, I knew he was everything a heart could ask for, kind, steady, endlessly lovable. Yet I also knew we could never be more than what we already were. Something in me remained elsewhere, out of reach, no matter how close I lay beside him. He looked at me as though this was what he had been waiting for all along. When the weekend ended and I drove home, the thought pressed against me: maybe it was time to let go of what haunted me, to move on, to give him the chance he quietly asked for without words. I wanted to believe I could choose the steadiness of him, the comfort of mornings unbroken by leaving. That night, the apartment felt heavier than usual. I moved through the familiar rooms, setting down my bag, slipping off my shoes, and turning off the lights. I sank into the bed, pulling the covers close, letting my body soften against the familiar weight of sheets and pillows. Then I noticed it. A faint flicker of light beneath my bedroom door. My heart skipped a beat. Sitting up, I blinked against the dimness, unsure if I was imagining it. At first I thought it was a passing car, a trick of tired eyes. Still, I reached for the handle. The moment I opened it, the air shifted. I was back in the garden. End of Part 8. Part 7 https://ift.tt/UvdIhiW ©️ M.