The new year arrived slowly, quietly. There were no fireworks, no parties—just the two of us, sitting on the small couch in our cottage, wrapped in the same old blanket, watching an old movie and sipping on hot chocolate. It was simple. But it was everything.
And that's when it hit me: love didn't have to be loud to be real. Sometimes, it sounded like the clink of two mugs, or the hum of a fan at midnight, or his quiet breathing beside me as we drifted to sleep. That was home.
The cottage didn't have much. The fridge made funny noises. The geyser acted up whenever we needed a warm shower most. But we made it work. Bit by bit, we started filling it with memories. Our very first houseplant sat by the window—dying a little each week, but still holding on. Photos of us were pinned to the wall with tape, and mismatched mugs filled the kitchen shelves.
And despite the imperfections, I loved it more than anywhere I'd ever lived.
We had Saturday mornings where we played music loud and danced barefoot in the kitchen. We had weekday nights of frustration when assignments piled up or work was draining, but somehow, we always ended those nights in each other's arms.
It wasn't about being perfect. It was about being present.
He'd walk through the door after a long day, and even if I was tired or moody or didn't have dinner ready, he'd say, "I'm just glad to be home."
We cooked together more. Tried new recipes. Burned things sometimes. Laughed always.
Our neighbors, a retired couple next door, often said we reminded them of their younger selves. One evening they invited us over for tea and told us, "Don't waste time waiting for the perfect moment. Make the moment perfect."
That stuck with us.
So we started celebrating small things: finishing the month without debt, getting good feedback on a college assignment, managing to fix the curtain rail without breaking the wall. Each little win became a reason to say, "Look how far we've come."
Zeon never stopped being the man I met that day near the mall. The confidence, the humor, the heart—it was all still there, only deeper now. Grounded.
And me? I had changed too. I had learned to speak my mind without fear, to stand up for what I needed, and to trust that love could be soft and strong at the same time.
There were still struggles. The world outside didn't always make space for young love, especially one built with so few resources. But we had each other.
And that was enough.
On one particularly stormy night, the power went out. We sat in darkness, wrapped in blankets, a single candle flickering on the coffee table.
"I used to think home was a place," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now I know it's a person."
He didn't say anything—just pulled me closer, kissed my forehead, and whispered, "Then I'll spend the rest of my life being that for you."
And in that quiet, rainy moment, I believed him.
Because love didn't start in fairy tales for us.
It started on a bad day, in school uniform, on tired feet. It grew through pain, distance, silence, and healing.
But now? Now it was steady. Now it was home.