#1

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That afternoon, the rain fell softly, like a secret whispered against the ancient walls of the city. It wasn’t the kind of rain that drenched everything in its path - just enough to darken the hem of a shirt, enough to let a quiet melancholy seep into people’s hearts.

In a little coffee shop tucked into a forgotten corner of the street, where time seemed to pause amidst the haze of jazz and the warm breath of aged wood, two boys sat facing each other.

They didn’t talk much. Words were unnecessary when glances had already begun their secret dialogue. Sometimes, almost unconsciously, their eyes found each other - like two hidden streams that had, against all odds, met underground.

The boy in the white shirt, serene as the surface of a still lake, tilted his head ever so slightly whenever their gazes touched. The other boy, lips curved in a quiet, knowing smile, cradled his coffee cup with both hands as if holding something fragile, precious.

No one remembers who broke the silence first. Perhaps it was a glance that lingered too long. Perhaps it was a small question about the book resting on the table. Or maybe, it was nothing more than the way presence itself sometimes fits so perfectly - like a chair that had always been waiting for someone, especially on a rainy day.

They began like that. Quietly. Slowly. The way spring arrives, without noise, without ceremony - yet every blossom is enough to stir a restless heart.

As days passed, chance meetings wove themselves into deliberate encounters. They didn’t need to say words like "miss" or "love". A light brush of a shoulder on a narrow path was enough. Splitting a strawberry tart in two was enough. A short message at the end of the day was enough.

Their love was like a cup of tea on a winter afternoon - unassuming, unhurried, not blazing with fire but warming to the core. They taught each other gentleness not through explanations, but through presence. They weren’t together to fill silence, but to watch quietly, patiently as the other grew, changed, and still remained.

One day, when the wind carried sickness into one of them, the other showed up unannounced, carrying a bag of hot porridge, his hands still scented faintly of rain. They sat side by side without turning on the TV, without reaching for music. Only the hush of rain outside, and the rhythm of calm, drowsy breathing within.

"What do you think.. love is?" The ill one whispered, eyes half-closed, voice nearly lost in the patter of rain.

The other smiled, gently pulling the blanket higher. "Love is when you ask me that and I realize I don’t need an answer."

Their love had no need for proofs. No grand gestures, no loud proclamations, no glossy photographs for the world to see. It was like the first rain of the season, like sunlight slipping quietly through a veil of cloud.. subtle, delicate, yet steady enough to warm a waiting heart.

Seasons shifted. The wind began carrying the scent of wildflowers, and still, they walked old streets together, read books together, let the slow afternoons stretch around them like an embrace. Their handclasps were not hidden, yet neither were they flaunted. They only needed each other to understand.. that was enough.

No one knows when they truly fell in love. There was no marked beginning, no confession under the stars, no anniversary circled in red. Perhaps the greatest love is the kind that doesn’t need to say "I love you," and yet, at every moment, the heart feels completely held.

The world may spin. People may change, betray, leave, or forget. But somewhere, in a quiet corner of life, two hearts choose each other for no reason at all. Just because in their togetherness, everything suddenly becomes still. Everything suddenly feels right.

And perhaps, that is love.

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