The Things We Love

The air in our small home in the foothills of Nepal was thick with the scent of cardamom and simmering dal. Sunlight, golden and soft, spilled through the open window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the quiet peace. It was a peace hard-won, a peace that had once seemed an impossible dream, a fragile butterfly I’d feared would shatter with the slightest disturbance. Now, it was the very fabric of my days. Aryan sat across from me at our simple wooden table, his dark eyes, once so full of shadows and secrets, now held a warmth that mirrored the sun. He was sketching in a worn notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration, a familiar, comforting sight.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, my voice soft, not wanting to break the spell of his focus.

He looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face, the kind that still made my heart stumble. “You,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Trying to capture the way the light catches your hair.”