Chapter Fourteen: Still Here
Years passed. Quietly.
Like how snow falls—without announcing itself, but changing the whole world.
The shop changed. A little.
New coat of paint. Fewer hours.
Same bell over the door.
Same table near the window.
Same two cups, always waiting.
People came and went.
Some asked if we were the owners.
Others asked if we were married.
You always answered,
“We’re just… here.”
And I always added,
“Still.”
Still laughing over misprinted titles.
Still sharing toast.
Still catching each other’s eyes at the exact same second and knowing everything without needing to say it.
One morning, I woke before you.
Made the tea.
Watched you curl into my sweater on the couch, half-asleep, book in hand.
And I thought:
We did it.
Not the love story with fireworks.
Not the one with cliffhangers or applause.
Just the quiet kind.
The kind that holds.
The kind that lasts.
The kind that says,
I’m still here.
And always will be.