love,slowly

Love, SlowlyThe first time Ruth saw Chris, he was dancing in the rain.Not dancing like someone caught in a storm and trying to run for cover. No, he was actually dancing—arms outstretched, spinning in lazy circles in the center of the college courtyard as thunder grumbled in the distance. His soaked shirt clung to him, his laughter rising above the heavy drops pelting the pavement. Everyone else had scrambled inside, but he was there. Wild. Free. Happy.Ruth stood beneath the shelter of the library’s stone archway, clutching her books to her chest, completely captivated.They didn’t speak that day. He didn’t even notice her. But Ruth remembered him. The boy who didn’t mind the rain.Months passed before fate offered her a second glance.She was working part-time at a campus café, wiping tables and pretending not to eavesdrop on the drama of overly caffeinated students. And there he was again, walking in like sunlight with a smile that felt like morning.He ordered a chai latte with extra cinnamon. She blinked, writing it down even though she’d memorized it. When he stepped aside to wait, she glanced at the name he scribbled on the order slip: Chris.As she handed over the drink, their fingers brushed. Just slightly. But it was enough to jolt something in her chest.“Thanks,” he said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You have pretty eyes.”Ruth flushed, stumbling for a response. “Uh, you… like cinnamon.”His grin widened. “You remembered.”From that day on, he came often. Sometimes daily. They exchanged more words. Shared stories. Laughed.It was slow. Sweet.And she was falling.Ruth never believed in fast love. She believed in slow-burning candles, in roots that grew deep. Chris was like that. He didn’t rush. He asked questions. He listened. And when she finally told him about her mom’s illness and how she dropped out of full-time classes to help at home, he didn’t offer pity.He offered presence.“I get it,” he said, voice low and steady. “My dad had cancer. It changes things.”It was the first time someone had said the right thing. Not I'm sorry. Not that must be hard. Just… I get it.They began studying together. Late-night walks. Cold hands wrapped around warm cups. Notes in her apron pocket. Glances that lingered.Love, slowly.On her birthday, he brought her a tiny cake—vanilla with strawberry frosting—and a book of poetry with his favorite pages dog-eared.“I didn’t know what you liked,” he said, shy for the first time.“I like that it’s from you,” she whispered.He kissed her that night. Gently. Tender as if he didn’t want to break the moment.She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe.Seasons changed. Her mother’s condition worsened. Chris never pulled away.One night, after a long hospital shift, she broke down in his arms.“I’m scared,” she sobbed.He held her. “I know. But you’re not alone.”That night he stayed, not in a lover’s way, but as a soul who refused to let her drown.They didn’t need grand declarations. They had gestures. They had space. They had time.And with time, came trust.After her mother passed, Ruth disappeared for a while. Not physically, but emotionally. She smiled less. Spoke softly. Carried grief like a second skin.Chris didn’t press. He waited. He came over with groceries. Let her cry. Let her laugh again when the sadness allowed.“Why do you stay?” she asked one evening, curled into the curve of his shoulder.“Because love isn’t just about the good parts,” he said. “It’s about choosing someone. Every day. Even when they can’t choose back yet.”She kissed him then. Fiercely. Thankfully.Years passed. They graduated. Moved cities. Took jobs that filled their days and nights.Ruth started her own art studio. Chris began teaching literature.They explored bookstores on rainy afternoons, tasted new dishes in crowded little restaurants, and danced barefoot in their apartment when the power went out.They fought, too. About small things, like toothpaste caps and dinner plans, and big things, like money and time. But they always came back to each other, not with apologies alone, but with understanding.One night, after a long week of missed conversations and bruised egos, Chris came home to find Ruth painting quietly by the window.He didn’t say a word. Just sat beside her and took her hand.“I forget sometimes,” he murmured. “That even slow love needs care.”She leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’re learning. Every day.”And they were.On the anniversary of their first kiss, he proposed in the café where they met. The ring was simple. The promise wasn’t.“To grow together. To change together. To love—slowly, truly, always.”She said yes with tears in her eyes and cinnamon on her lips.Their wedding was small. In a garden. With string lights and mismatched chairs. Her father walked her down the aisle with trembling hands. Chris waited beneath a canopy of soft white petals, eyes shinning