Kyoto

The streets of Kyoto are quiet, the air soft with morning light. We’ve been walking for hours, turning corners without a plan, and every step feels familiar, like I’ve done this with him before. He’s ahead, glancing back with a small smile. “You’re slow today,” he teases. I laugh because it’s easy. Everything with him is easy.

We stop at a stall selling daruma dolls. He hands me one. “Make a wish,” he says, his voice calm. I paint one eye, my wish unspoken, but as I do, I catch him watching me, not the doll. It’s a small thing, but it stays with me—the way he’s present, like this moment matters.

As we walk away, the doll in my bag, I think about my wish. It wasn’t for anything grand. It was for this—the way he turns simple moments into something I’ll remember. He glances back, smiling, and for a moment, the world feels still. It’s just us, just this, just now. And it’s enough. More than enough.