Home, after the rain
Another Year, Still You
Another year has passed, and there is still one person worth choosing every day.
There is a story in every pause
The rain had just stopped when the power went out. The dinner we had prepared sat on the table beside two little candles that were only meant to be decorations.
Her: Great anniversary plan.
You: I arranged everything.
Her: Including the power outage?
You: Especially the power outage. It adds drama.
You raised an eyebrow, then switched on your phone’s flashlight to see my face.
Her: Liar.
You: Just a little.
We ended up eating in the dark. There was no music, no movie, and the food was getting cold. Somehow, the night still felt complete.
You: What do you remember most about this year?
Her: When we got lost in Bandung.
You: That was the map’s fault.
Her: When you forgot to bring the tickets.
You: That was the printer’s fault.
Her: When you tried to fix the faucet and flooded the kitchen.
You: That was definitely the faucet’s fault.
You laughed so hard you had to put down your spoon.
Her: What I remember most is that we always found a way to laugh afterward.
I watched the candles slowly burn lower.
You: What if next year is harder?
Her: We’ll find another reason to laugh.
You: What if we can’t?
Her: Then we’ll be quiet for a while. And start looking again.
Our love did not always look like a grand celebration.
More often, it arrived as a glass of water left on the table, a message saying “get home safely,” or the last bite of food quietly saved for the other person.
You: Happy another year.
Her: Happy still choosing me.
You: I’ll choose you again tomorrow.
Her: Save tomorrow’s promise for tomorrow.
The power came back on. Neither of us moved to blow out the candles.
Thank you for staying until the end of the story.
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