Chapter 6: Homecoming

There she was, sitting across from me, her legs tucked neatly beneath her on the couch, talking with the same enthusiasm she’d always had. Her hands moved when she spoke, punctuating her words with gestures that seemed almost rehearsed, though I knew she wasn't doing it consciously. She's always had this natural rhythm, but her time as an idol had imbued her with a cadence to her voice that could make even the most mundane details sound like a revelation. And as I watched her, I felt it again—this ache in my chest that I’d come to associate with her. It was love, yes, but also something more. It was awe.

Her eyes puff into thin lines whenever she laughed, little spots of joy that seemed to carry her whole face with them. And that lower lip—God, her lower lip—tilted ever so slightly to the left when she grinned, giving her smile a lopsided charm that was impossible to look away from. I’d noticed it the first time we’d met, my parents introducing me to our new neighbors when we were just six years old, but it still caught me off guard every time, like rediscovering a favorite line in a book you’ve committed to memory.

Her smile lines, faint creases on opposite sides of her mouth that was only visible when she smiled, made her even more beautiful. I wanted to trace them with my fingers, memorize them, wondering how it could lead from her face straight into my heart without anything but the simple act of their existence.

And then there was the ribbon. The red ribbon she’d tied behind her hair—simple and unremarkable on any other woman, and yet it might as well have been a beacon on her. The first time she’d worn one was years ago, for our first date, on a spring afternoon as we’d walked through the park, her hair catching the sunlight and drawing my gaze. I’d told her, perhaps a little too earnestly, how much I loved it, how it made her look like someone out of a storybook. She’d laughed at me then, that puffy-eyed laugh, but from that day on, she’d worn a ribbon on every date we had. It was always red, always tied with the same careful knot, always brushing the nape of her neck. Every little thing she did seemed like a declaration, a testament to why I loved her. And I still love her, more than I could ever put into words.

I noticed the ribbon now, resting softly against the couch as she reclined, and I couldn’t help but think about how much it meant that she remembered, that she still cared enough to carry those little details with her. It wasn’t just a ribbon; it was a promise, a reminder of everything we were and will be.

She was in the middle of telling me about her life—the chaos, the fans, her recent virality—but I was barely hearing the words. I was too caught up in her, like a fly entranced by the light of a bug zapper, hurtling into its doom with joy and wild abandon.

She stopped mid-sentence, catching me staring, and tilted her head with an equally tilted smile. “What?” she asked, her voice light, teasing.

“Nothing,” I said, not because I had nothing to say, but because I had no idea where even to start.

Her smile softened, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. The silence between us wasn’t empty; it was full, heavy with everything we didn’t need to say. In that short moment, I fell in love with her a thousand times over again, and I knew—I just knew—that she was falling with me too.