They got their happily ever after. The one with candles, music, a kiss in slow motion, and people who cheered for more. Hannah still recalled the way the city lights twinkled behind them while they danced atop the building, his hand against the small of her back as if it held a promise.
That was three years ago, though.
Now, their apartment smelled of burnt toast. A cat called Moz had made his permanent home on their laundry. There were unwritten electricity bills plastered to the fridge with a magnet that said, "Love is messy." And Adam, the man she once whispered dreams to under the moonlit sky, was fast asleep on the couch with a bowl of cereal precariously perched on his chest.
Hannah stood in the kitchen doorway, in an old hoodie and one sock, wondering softly, *Is this still the fairytale?*
They had wed young and optimistic. She was 26, he was 28. No grand castle or royal ball gowns, but their wedding had laughter, clinking glasses, and the sort of dancing that leaves feet sore for days. Everyone assured them the hard part was done. They had found each other.
But nobody explains what comes after "I do." After the flowers have faded. After the guests have departed.
Love was sometimes the grocery lists and the miscommunicated texts. Sometimes it was brushing teeth alongside each other, exhausted but together. The magic didn't disappear—it just… changed outfits.
That morning, Hannah prepared coffee silently. She didn't wake him up. She sat by the window, looking out over the gray street. Moz wrapped around her ankle.
Then Adam stirred.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"You were peaceful. And besides, you drooled a little. I figured you deserved it."
He laughed sleepily. "That's love, right there."
They shared a smile—small but real.
Later that night, they crossed in the kitchen, both after the last chocolate-dipped strawberry in the refrigerator. Their hands touched.
"You can have it," Adam offered, but Hannah nodded.
"Let's cut it in half. Like the good old days."
He thought about it for a moment before grabbing a knife, cutting it down the middle. They took the halves out of their mouths at the same instant. Dorky. Delicious. So little, yet—and it was it all. called adam a sign of love is small things but real.
"I miss us," Hannah said in a gentle whisper.
Adam did not feign sympathy.
"I miss us too," he said, just quietly.
They stood there, the hum of the fridge behind them, silent.
"I was thinking," she started, "do you recall the cabin we spent our honeymoon in?"
"Lake Rose?" He smiled.
"Where the fireplace was broken and the moose glared at the windows at night," he added.
She laughed. "Precisely. I looked it up. It remains standing.
He lifted an eyebrow. "You want to go home?"
"I want to know who we were. Or perhaps look and see who we still are."
He didn't respond at first, but he took her hand—and that was reply enough.
Two weeks later, they were climbing mountain roads curved like a serpent's back, Moz gone with a friend and city lights disappearing from the mirror. At the cabin, nothing was different. The same crumbling porch swing. The same scar on the front door where, long ago, their suitcase had slammed after a friendly argument turned tickle fight.
They built a fire that night—even though the fireplace still had a bit of a smoke—and sipped wine from mugs because they had forgotten glasses. They played cards. They danced to music coming from an old Bluetooth speaker. And when the fire went out, they huddled together under one blanket, legs entwined, as embers glowed.
"I forgot how quiet the world could be," Adam whispered.
Hannah nodded. "It's easier to hear each other here."
He faced her, pushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "I never stopped loving you, you know."
"I know," she breathed. "But I think we forgot how to show it."
The silence fell again, but this time it was comfortable.
And then she asked, "Do you ever wonder how stories always end at the 'happily ever after'? As if love is a finish line."
He laughed. "We went over the finish line and discovered it was really the starting point."
"Yeah." She smiled. "Nobody sets down what happens in between. The mundane Tuesday evenings, the heaps of dirty laundry, the arguments over whose turn it is to put out the trash."
Perhaps that's where the true story lies," he said, drawing her gently closer. "Not in the grand openings or theatrics, but in the quiet decision-making. Deciding to choose one another, time and time again, even when it's difficult. Especially then."
Her eyes sparkled with tears. "Do you still choose me?"
He kissed her forehead. "Every day.
And inside that cabin, under that sky so full of stars they had forgotten how to see, Hannah sensed something changing. Not a spark rekindled—because true love wasn't always flame. Sometimes, it was soft light. A low, golden glow that didn't burn out. It flickered. It dimmed. But it held on.
The story lines hadn't ended.
It had just matured enough.
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