The Way You Looked at Me
I remember the morning light first.
It had that soft, golden spill that seemed to pour through the curtains instead of merely falling. Dust floated in the sunbeams, tiny golden motes drifting lazily, like even they were too comfortable to rush. Outside, a sparrow was singing somewhere near the old guava tree, its tune threading through the quiet like a needle through cloth. I could hear the faint hum of the world waking up—distant bicycle bells, a motorbike engine coughing to life, a neighbor’s laughter carried faintly on the breeze.
And then there was you.
You were leaning against the kitchen doorway, a chipped mug of coffee in your hand. The steam curled upward in thin, ghostly ribbons, mingling with the smell of fresh bread I had just pulled from the toaster. You were wearing that faded gray sweatshirt I always teased you about—the one with the frayed sleeves and faint coffee stains—but to me, it was the closest thing to home I had ever known.
You didn’t say anything at first. You just stood there, watching me butter the toast, and your eyes…
God, your eyes were a whole season I could live in. They weren’t just looking at me; they were keeping me—like you had silently decided that I belonged in the small, warm corner of your world where the morning light was soft and the air smelled like bread and coffee.
Outside, the breeze played with the bougainvillea, scattering petals across the veranda. They landed soundlessly on the old, sun-bleached tiles, and I remember thinking they looked like drops of frozen sunset.
You walked in slowly, your steps unhurried, like we had all the time in the world. When you placed your mug on the counter, the sound was small but certain, as if even the ceramic trusted this moment to hold steady. You reached out—not for the toast, not for the coffee—but for my hand. Your fingers were warm, calloused in places, and they fit around mine in that unthinking way that made me believe we’d been doing this forever.
“You trust me, right?” you asked, half-smiling, as though the question was just a formality, something you already knew the answer to.
And I laughed—a soft, unguarded laugh. The kind that bubbles up from a place too deep to lie. “Of course I do,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from my face with my free hand.
In that moment, everything felt safe.
The world could have collapsed beyond our gate, and I wouldn’t have noticed. The air was warm, the coffee was sweet, the sunlight was gentle—and your gaze was steady.
If I had known then how easily mornings could turn cold, I would have memorized more of that day—the way the light curved around your jawline, the faint scent of rain in the distance, the way the sparrow’s song seemed to answer yours when you hummed without realizing.
But I didn’t know.
And so I let the moment pass, thinking we had countless mornings left.
