A heart that stays

A Heart That StaysEdna remembered the first time she saw Chris.He wasn’t doing anything remarkable—just sitting on the edge of a wooden bench in the city’s public garden, headphones in, eyes closed. But there was something about him, about the way his lips curved gently at the corners as if the world whispered something only he could hear. That calm in a city that never stopped moving—she had never forgotten it.They met again by accident, weeks later, at the bookstore near the university. She was reaching for a copy of Letters to a Young Poet when a hand bumped hers. It was him. Chris.He gave that slow, easy smile—the one that would eventually undo all her fears—and said, “Rilke’s got good timing.”She didn’t even remember how the conversation began, only that it never seemed to end.Their first love felt like being chosen in a room full of strangers. Gentle dates turned to long walks. His voice became the sound she craved after long days. She was the poet, the planner, the one who kept both feet on the ground. He was the dreamer, the traveler, the one who made her believe in softness again.But love is rarely ever just soft.When Chris got the scholarship to study abroad for a year, Edna smiled and told him to go. “It’s your dream,” she said.And it was.They promised to make it work. Calls turned into voicemails. Voicemails into silence. Distance was more than geography. It was missed birthdays, mismatched schedules, the ache of wondering if you were still in someone’s heart when you weren’t in their world.She wrote him letters. Some she sent. Most she didn’t.He wrote poems, some she found later—unfinished, folded, tucked into books he left behind. Words meant for her, never spoken aloud.When Chris returned, everything felt out of rhythm. Their hands still fit, but the silences grew longer. They loved each other, but love didn’t feel like enough.“I think we need time,” he said, one evening, the stars above too quiet for what his words would carry.She nodded. “I think so too.”They parted with a hug that felt more like a question than a goodbye.Time passed. Edna dove into work. She became a counselor at a community center, pouring love into people who needed someone to listen. Chris traveled. Taught. Wrote. He sent postcards sometimes—short lines from cities with names she whispered at night like spells.She dated. Smiled. Laughed again.But every now and then, when the rain hit the pavement just right, she thought of him. Of the way he would hold her hand, tracing circles into her skin like he was memorizing her.Years later, Edna was running late to a poetry reading at a small gallery downtown. She ducked in quietly, breathless, brushing rain from her coat.And there he was.Standing at the mic. Reading something she hadn’t heard before—but felt like home.“...and some hearts don’t move on. Some hearts simply wait. Not out of longing, but because they know what they chose. And they stay.”When he looked up, their eyes met. And for a moment, no one else existed.After the reading, he found her in the back, standing by a shelf of worn poetry collections.“You came,” he said.“You never really left,” she replied.They walked through the city until dawn, talking about everything and nothing. The missing years, the people they’d become, the pieces they’d lost and found.He took her hand again—this time not as a question.“I never stopped carrying you,” he said. “Even when I didn’t know how to hold on.”Edna didn’t need grand promises. She only needed the truth.“I stayed,” she whispered.Love wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t painless. But the real kind—the kind that’s built on honesty and choice and the patience to wait—was worth returning to.In time, they moved into a small apartment filled with books and half-written poems. He made breakfast; she watered the plants. Some days were quiet. Some loud. But each day ended with the same question:“Still with me?”And always, the same answer:“Always.”Their friends called it a second chance. But for Chris and Edna, it wasn’t starting over.It was simply… continuing.Because some hearts don’t forget.Some hearts don’t leave.Some hearts stay.And theirs did.One cold winter evening, when the power went out in their apartment, they lit candles and curled up on the couch under a wool blanket. Edna read to him by flickering light—an old book of love letters they’d found at a thrift shop.“This one’s my favorite,” she whispered, “because it says exactly what I never had the courage to say: ‘If I could live my life over again, I’d find you sooner, so I could love you longer.’”Chris leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips.“You’ve always said it, Edna. In the way you stayed.”And as snow fell silently outside, their hearts beat in rhythm again.They traveled. Not to run, but to return with stories. Edna filled sketchbooks with watercolor streets and faces. ro be continued stay tuned 💖💘🫂😍