© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

There are people who arrive in your life like thunder — loud, chaotic, unforgettable. And then there are the ones who arrive like sunlight. Soft. Warm. Quiet. But they change everything.

Lily was sunlight.

When I first saw her, she was standing in a field of golden blooms, the morning mist clinging to her hair like dew to petals. Her dress glowed like woven dawn, and when she turned to look at me, I swear, the sky held its breath.

I was not made for light. I came from storms, stitched together with shadows and scars I wore like armor. I did not know how to bloom. But she — she looked at me like I was already something beautiful.

She didn’t ask who I was. She simply said, “You look tired of carrying darkness alone.”

And that was how Lily loved. Not with demands, not with declarations — but with presence. With poems in the form of glances. With hands that reached out without needing to fix, only to hold.

She became the dawn to my night.

I was a broken thing, convinced I could only offer ruin, yet she saw stories in my wreckage. She would sit beside me and paint the sunrise with her words, coaxing the colors back into my grayscale soul. Her laugh was a melody I wanted to wrap around my chest just to feel something that wasn’t hollow.

When I told her about the ache I carry — the things I’ve done, the weight of who I used to be — she didn’t flinch. She whispered, “Even the moon has craters, and we still call it beautiful.”

And maybe that’s what she was. Not just light — but grace. Not just warmth — but forgiveness I didn’t think I deserved.

Our love wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t burn like wildfire. It bloomed. Slowly. Softly. A garden growing in ruins.

Sometimes she would write me letters and leave them in the places I bled out my guilt. They never asked for change. They only said, “Even in the dark, you are worth writing about.”