His POV

It’s always been the two of us. From babies in matching hospital cribs, to toddlers fighting over crayons, to teenagers who shared a single pair of earphones like it was sacred. She was the loud one. The spark. The pink marker that never ran out. I was the kid in the corner who always had an extra battery, an extra charger, an extra plan—because she never had any of those things, and I liked being the one who did.

I know all her playlists by heart. Even the ones she swears she made “just for vibes.” She knows when I’m spiraling before I do—just puts her hand on my arm and says nothing. That’s all it takes.

Now we’re in different worlds. She’s across the street in a bright white art building that smells like paint thinner and peonies. Her hands are always smudged with color, her phone case covered in glitter. I’m in a steel-and-glass cube filled with future CEOs and three-piece suits. I talk numbers. Strategy. Efficiency. She talks light and shadows and why pink is a feeling, not a color.

But every morning is still ours. I pull up to her dorm, she walks out in some pastel outfit that looks like it came from a dream, sunglasses oversized, iced coffee in hand. Then she slides into the passenger seat like she owns the car and says, “You’re one minute late, Arlo.” I never am. I’m always early. But she likes saying it.

Today was the last day of exams. Semester done. She came out of her building with her sketchpad clutched to her chest and this look on her face like she just won something. And honestly? She probably did. She always does.

I took her to her favorite café—the tiny one near campus with pink chairs and gold spoons and a neon sign that says “be soft, stay wild.” I ordered her a matcha latte and a strawberry croissant before she could even speak. She tried to argue, said she’d pay this time. I just shook my head.

She sat across from me, legs crossed, drawing something on her iPad. Said it was for her final portfolio. Then she leaned in just slightly, her hair brushing my shoulder, and whispered like it was a secret, “Can you believe we’re actually doing this? College. Grown-up stuff.”

I laughed and handed her my hoodie. AC was too cold and her top was barely holding up against it. She mumbled something about me being a grandma, but she wore it anyway.

Then she looked at me for a second. Really looked. And said, “You ever think it’s weird? That we’re so… different? Like two completely different worlds that just never pulled apart?”

I looked at her.

Pink nails tapping on her straw. Little silver hoops dangling from her ears. A charm bracelet she’s worn since she was fourteen. Lip gloss that smells like strawberries and sunshine.

And me—black hoodie, notebook full of spreadsheets in my bag, head still buzzing from finance theory.

We shouldn’t make sense. But we do.

“I’m not stuck,” I said quietly. “I choose this. I choose you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just smiled. Slow and real. The same smile she gave me when we were five and I let a butterfly out of a jar because she asked me to. Back then, I didn’t understand what it meant. Now I do.

Because I’ve loved her quietly, my whole life.

Not in the loud way people write songs about. In the steady, everyday kind of way. The kind that picks her up every morning. The kind that remembers her favorite desserts. The kind that always listens—even when she rambles about clouds and canvases and things I’ll never quite understand.

She’s home. My beginning, my middle, maybe even my ending.

And I think… As long as she’s still next to me—still stealing my hoodie, still calling me out when I’m one minute “late,” still looking at me like I matter in her world of colors and dreams— I won’t need anything else.

I already have everything I want. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.