In The Quiet With You

I rode the bus home today, and I thought of you. Of those quiet rides we used to share— you, leaning your tired body against me, your head resting on my shoulder like it belonged there. I’d hold your hand, tapping your lap gently just to say, “I’m here.” No words, just warmth, just us in our own small world while the city moved around us. We’d walk the last bit home, slow, half-asleep, the kind of tired that only comes when you’ve given too much of yourself. And I’d cook you breakfast— nothing fancy, just something warm, something to say “I love you” without having to say it. Then we’d crawl into bed, not caring about the heat, not minding the sweat or the stickiness— we just held each other like it was the only thing that mattered. Because it was. I miss that. I miss you. And today, on that bus, it all came back like it never left.