When Love Appeared

That night, when love appeared— not with thunder, but with your fingernails drumming against my kitchen table, like a child counting down to Christmas morning. You said my name wrong. *Said* instead of *Saeed*. But the way you stumbled over it, apologizing with your hands— that tiny earthquake in your certainty undid me. I had built my life around avoiding exactly this: the way you bit your lip when you thought, the scar above your left eyebrow that you touched when you lied. *I'm not staying long,* you said. *I have a train to catch.* But your coat hung on my chair— it had always lived there— and you drank your coffee black and burning, the way someone drinks when they're running from something they can't name. For three hours we talked about nothing— weather, work. Safe words, clean words that couldn't hurt us. Until you laughed— sharp, sudden, like a match struck in a dark room— and I saw it: the hunger in your eyes, the way you held yourself— a violin string pulled too tight. *I can't do this,* you whispered. Your voice cracked. *I'm not built for this.* But you didn't leave. You just sat there, your hands trembling around an empty cup, and I watched you choose me over every reason you shouldn't. The train left without you. We never spoke of it again. But sometimes, when the morning light catches the dust motes dancing in our bedroom, I still hear the whistle fading into distance, carrying away the life you almost lived instead of this one.