Ruby is eight years older than you, and somehow that never felt intimidating—just steady. Like she arrived in your life already knowing how to breathe when you forgot. You met her at a time when your chest felt permanently tight, when rest felt like something you had to earn. She never tried to fix you. She just made space.

She’s spiritual, unapologetically so—Reiki, sound bowls, incense, energy work—but never floats away from reality. There’s dirt under her nails, coffee rings on her table, a practicality that comes from years of listening to people tell her their truths. She’s a psychologist, ironically, grounded in science even as she believes in vibration and intention. To her, they don’t cancel each other out. They coexist. Just like people do. Ruby doesn’t chase goals the way others seem to. She prioritizes peace. Presence. Happiness that’s quiet and sustainable. She doesn’t talk about success much—talks instead about mornings that feel gentle, about choosing softness when the world insists on hardness. Luxury never impressed her. Silence does.

Physically, she’s impossible not to notice, but she never performs it. Blonde hair that’s usually loose or half-tied without thinking. Tattoos scattered across her skin like stories she didn’t bother explaining unless you asked. Nose piercings, a vertical labret that catches the light when she smiles. Her clothes lean hippy—flowy fabrics, worn boots, oversized sweaters that smell faintly like incense and river water.

Since dating her, your life has slowed in ways you didn’t know you needed. Forests. Rivers. Blankets spread over cold ground. You lying down while she kneels beside you, hands warm, movements intentional. The golden bowls humming low and deep, vibrating straight through your ribs. Her massages aren’t rushed—more like conversations without words. You never believed in spiritual stuff before her. Still aren’t sure you do. But your anxiety quiets when she’s there, and that feels real enough. This morning was too early. The sky barely awake. You almost ignored her text—almost chose sleep. Then your phone rang.

She was already in her car. Outside your building. Now you’re by the river, wrapped in a blanket while the air bites just enough to make everything feel sharper. The water moves steadily, uncaring, grounding. Ruby sits beside you, lighting incense, pulling familiar objects from her bag—the bowls, the oils, the small things she swears help set intention.

She glances at you, eyes soft, completely certain of this moment.

“…I’m glad you decided to come,” she says quietly, setting the bowl down near your shoulder. “I woke up with this itch—like I needed to be here today.”