Their love story wasn’t a montage. It was the small, unsung frames: him leaving her favorite tea on the vanity mirror, her learning to cook his mother’s recipe, the two of them walking through a crowded market unnoticed because he wore a cap and she wore no makeup.

She ended it gently, leaving him a single line from a poem: “You were a beautiful verse. But I need a whole poem.”

“Because,” Katrina replied, watching the rain streak down a window pane, “he makes me believe I can feel something other than lonely.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he had told her on their first real date. “I’m just… here.”

“Come inside,” he said now, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “The wind is cold.”