They were unremarkable.
Except if you knew them.
Then you’d know how their love had withstood the cruel tides of time.
They were unremarkable. Except if you noticed the scars they had incurred – both on their bodies and their hearts, at different phases of their lives, perhaps even with different people in their lives – of hurt, of passion, of belonging, each of which had a glorious story to tell. Except if you looked closely enough. Then, you’d… see the signs scattered all over their place, over her open ink-bottle next to his guitar, over her old, almost crumbling typewriter in his music studio, over her peach curtains next to his oak-wood desks, over her vintage posters on his grey-painted walls, over window-sills and wrought iron lamps and a million knick-knacks that they’d filled their lives with. You’d find it between the creases of her favorite books, all that love – in his choice of colors for her dresses, in the way the kitchen was modeled perfectly to her height, or the way he always poured a little extra coffee into his mug because he knew she’d finish hers first and then want some more. You’d find it again, if you listened to the pauses in their sentences, the little intonations, the hesitations and the jokes, the catch in their laughter, as if they were a little scared always, even after all this time, of losing each other. And if you read between their lines, you would see how they labored at life, every day, all day, unknowingly – just so that they could come home to each other every night. And that would be when they covered every inch of each other’s skin, exploring every rise and fall, which over years cultivated such familiarity that anyone else’s would seem utterly alien. Anyone else’s skin would never feel like home when one of them woke up at three in the night, after a nightmare, and needed to hold on.
These were the things they did, the little ways in which they reeled the other in, without ever saying it out loud. Their dinners were quiet. Their garden had no garish flowers. They weren’t exceptionally famous or talented in any way. But when the tyres of his car reversed from the parking lot every day, she would run out to the balcony and stay there to catch every glimpse she could of him – till the car faded out of her sight – and then she would stay a little longer, imagining the lingering glimpse, perhaps even recreating it. When he returned home every evening, he would get her one lone flower from the garden beyond, which she would gleefully plant in her vase. And when their eyes met over a pool of outsiders in a party, they would be tired and relieved at having found each other again. And their lips would light up with a smile – at having found each other again.
Yes, they were unremarkable – in ways people seldom are.
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