I walked into the room with my heart still carrying goodbye—
from a love I once knew, or maybe just a story I finally outgrew.
The air was thick with silence,
until you looked at me—
not like someone who wanted something,
but like someone who saw everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked,
and the question felt like a pillow for my fears.

You noticed the sweat on my forehead,
offered water not just to drink,
but to ease the weight I didn’t know I was carrying.
Your words had no sharpness,
your eyes, no hurry—
just still water reflecting calm skies.

And then I said it—
about the girl you met before this.
And instead of making me feel small or jealous,
you smiled—
that rare kind of smile that says:
“If that matters to you, then it matters to me too.”
And I felt something shift.
Like I’d finally met someone who didn’t need convincing
to choose me.

You placed your hands on my shoulders
—not to guide, not to hold—
but to be there.
Just there.
Behind me, beside me, around me.
Like safety with skin.

Then came the envelope—shagun, you said.
A token.
Of what?
Of belonging.
Of blessing.
Of a life that maybe I never asked for, but always deserved.

And then the baby…
Blue-eyed, swaddled in the softness of something holy.
Not mine, not yours,
but somehow ours for a moment.
And when I held him—
he looked straight into me,
like he had known me across lifetimes.

That moment—
your breath near my ear,
your warmth touching my back,
your silence speaking louder than poetry—
it felt like love had never been louder.

You didn’t kiss me.
You didn’t try to own me.
You just stood close enough for me to believe in goodness again.

And I think,
maybe this dream wasn’t a dream.
Maybe it was a memory I haven’t lived yet.
Maybe it’s the echo of a future so tender,
even sleep couldn’t keep it hidden.

So I’ll wait.
Not with desperation,
but with open palms.
Because something tells me—
when it comes back,
it won’t feel like arrival.

It’ll feel like home.