Chapter Thirty
There is a moment—quiet, almost unnoticeable—when you realize you’ve crossed into something lasting.
Not because everything is perfect.
Not because life has slowed down.
But because you stop bracing.
The fourth year begins without ceremony. No milestones begging to be named. Just a morning where Noah leaves for work, kisses my forehead, and says, “See you later,” like it’s a promise the world already understands.
And it is.
We host dinner more often now. Friends spill into our apartment with stories and laughter, with lives in progress. The table is never quite big enough. The food is never quite on time. I love it anyway.
One night, after everyone leaves and the dishes are stacked in the sink, Noah leans against the counter and watches me quietly.
“You’re different
