A soft hand, curled in mine, a hesitant dove finding harbor.
Fingers interlaced, a fragile promise etched against the harsh landscape of expectation and whispered doubts.
Her eyes, a twilight sky, reflecting constellations I never knew existed, galaxies of longing and unspoken dreams. We build our world in stolen glances, secret smiles blooming in crowded rooms.
A rebellion in whispered syllables, a sanctuary found in the curve of her smile. We braid our stories, thread by delicate thread, a tapestry woven on the loom of shared breath, ignoring the looming storm, the disapproving glances, the weight of tradition.
We are wildflowers pushing through concrete, a love song humming beneath the surface, a defiant bloom in a monochrome world. We are brave, we are terrified, we are everything they told us we couldn't be.
But the air grows thick with unspoken fears, the shadows lengthen, and the whispers turn to shouts. The world outside clamors for conformity, demands we dismantle the haven we've built.
We carry their whispers, the ghost of the past, the girls who dared to love when it meant everything, and lost too much. We are their hope, their lament, their quiet victory,
but history hates lovers, doesn't it?