Golden hour glow and feeling like it’s all happening… even if that ‘all’ just means snuggling up to our favorite cozy sweater. A little bit of rain outside doesn’t matter when you have this view (and ...

The wool feels scratchy tonight, doesn’t it? Not unpleasant – not always uncomfortable – but definitely there. Like the memory of rain against skin, familiar yet needing a little too much tending. It’s been five years, hasn’t it? Five years since the last time the question was really asked. Not “How were the kids?” – though those were nice enough, certainly. More like…this.

Your eyes are dry today. They usually are. Remember when they used to crinkle around the edges when we laughed, almost without noticing? Now it's more of a quiet observation, isn’t it? A slight tilt of the head, a careful assessment. As if you’re wondering what went wrong, except maybe you don’t entirely believe we knew. We had everything, didn’t we? The bookshop, the scent of old paper and coffee, the way the light always caught your hair...

Here. Let yourself look. See the sleeve of the cable knit cardigan, turned up a bit—a small defiance perhaps, towards all these years of silent expectations. Or maybe just a need for warmth. These boots, at least, haven’ed seen better days. Leather worn smooth by countless walks home through autumn leaves.

We weren't shouting, never truly shouted. Just drifted apart, hadn't we? Slowly, gently, until the space between us felt less like choice and more like inevitability.

There was that argument, of course. About which way round to hang the paintings, ridiculous, wasn’t it? But it signified something deeper than aesthetics, didn’t it? Something about who owned the room, and whose voice mattered most.

Now, the kettle whistled, a sound that should be comforting. Did it remind you of her then, nestled beside you in bed, warm and predictable? Or did it simply remind you of being here, facing each other across the table, in this comfortable gloom.

So, yes, look closer. That hint of skepticism in the set of your mouth. A flicker of recognition in your gaze. And maybe, just maybe, a spark remains beneath the layers of dust and acceptance. It wouldn’t take much to rekindle it, would it? Wouldn’t it?"

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