She stood there, leaning against the cold metal of the balcony rail, city lights throwing gold across her skin. The world moved belowcars honking, people shouting, the night humming with a life that didn't care about love stories. But in that moment, the noise didn't touch her. He was beside her, close enough to feel the warmth rolling off his skin, close enough that the space between them felt charged. Not with words, not with promises, but with something quieter. Something deeper.
A hand liftedhis, hers, neither knowing who moved first. Just a brush, knuckles barely grazing. And yet, the air between them thickened, stretched, became something fragile and unbreakable all at once. No grand speeches, no perfectly crafted confessions. Just the quiet understanding that something had shifted.
The way love begins isn't with fireworks exploding in the sky. It's in the little thingseyes meeting across a crowded room, a voice calling your name like it belongs to them, the way someone waits for you to catch up even when you haven't asked them to. It builds in whispers, in hesitations, in the breath that catches in a throat when a touch lingers just a second too long.
He had seen her before, passed by her in hallways, exchanged words that meant nothing on the surface. Good morning. See you later. Just noise, just filler. But one day, her smile hit differently. One day, he noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way her fingers drummed against her coffee cup when she was thinking. And just like that, the world turned, and she was at the center of it.
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