Manuel held my hand carefully.
—I wasted too many years letting life decide things for me. I won’t do that again.
Then he smiled softly.
And suddenly, for a brief moment, I could still see the twenty-year-old boy I once loved.
Months passed.
Slowly, our life found a rhythm.
Peaceful mornings.
Medicine schedules on the refrigerator.
Coffee on the patio.
Afternoon naps while the television played old movies neither of us actually watched.
Sometimes we talked about the years we lost.
The children we might have had together.
The trips we never took.
The tiny apartment we once dreamed of renting when we were young.
And yes…
Sometimes sadness still appeared.
Because love after sixty is different.
It carries memory.
Regret.
Fear.
You become painfully aware that time is no longer endless.
But maybe that is exactly why every small moment becomes sacred.
One rainy evening, while we sat listening to the storm outside, Manuel suddenly looked at me and smiled.
—What is it? —I asked.
—I was just thinking…
