You, Me, and the Autumn Breeze
It wasn’t a grand, sweeping romance. There were no dramatic declarations on rain-soaked tarmacs or fights for each other in a dystopian world. For Liam and Sam, it was quieter than that. It was a love built in the spaces between words, measured in the rustle of leaves and the comfortable silence of two souls perfectly in tune.
They met in the fall, of course. At a farmer's market, both reaching for the last basket of Honeycrisp apples. Their hands brushed, and Liam, with his ridiculous beanie pulled low over his ears, had blurted out, “We could share them?” Sam, pragmatic and amused, had simply said, “Or you could just buy the pears instead.”
He bought the pears. And then he asked her for coffee.
Their love didn't roar; it whispered. It was in the way Liam always warmed Sam's cold hands between his own, even before she had to ask. It was in the way Sam saved the crunchy, cinnamon-sugar rim of her coffee mug for him. It was in the long walks they took, their footsteps crunching in synchrony on the carpet of gold and crimson leaves.
They didn't need a soundtrack. Their music was the wind sighing through the nearly-bare branches, the distant honk of geese flying south, the crinkle of Sam's scarf as she tucked her face into it against the chill.
“It’s getting cold,” Liam murmured one afternoon, their breath pluming in the air as they stood on the old wooden bridge overlooking the creek.
Sam leaned into his side, her head finding its familiar spot on his shoulder. “I know.”
“Winter’s coming.”
“I know that, too.”
He turned to her then, his nose cold against her temple. “My apartment has a terrible furnace. It’s drafty.”
“Mine has great insulation,” she replied, a smile playing on her lips. “But the view isn't as good as this.”
They were quiet for a moment, listening to the water trickle over the stones below. An oak leaf, the color of burnt sienna, detached itself and spiraled down, landing in Sam’s hair. Liam gently plucked it out, twirling it by its stem.
“What I’m trying to say,” he started, his voice soft but sure, “is that my favorite part of this season isn’t the apples, or the sweaters, or even this view.” He looked at her, his eyes clear and warm. “It’s you, next to me, with the autumn breeze in your hair.”
Sam’s heart didn't pound; it swelled. It was a feeling of profound rightness, like a final puzzle piece clicking into place. She took the leaf from his fingers and tucked it into the pocket of his coat, a promise to be kept.
“Then I guess my favorite part is you,” she said simply. “Keeping me warm.”
There was no grand question. No kneeling. Just a slow, understanding smile that passed between them, as tangible as a spoken vow. He laced his fingers through hers, and they turned from the bridge, walking back towards the path. The wind picked up, sending a fresh shower of leaves dancing around them, a silent, joyful applause for a love that asked for nothing more than this: you, me, and the autumn breeze#usmanshaikh#usmanwrites#usm
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