It had been years.

Buried years.

Day upon day.

Month upon month.

And now nearly decade upon decade.

But it all felt the same.

As if not a single gesture had ever changed.

The eyes, flashes of kindness and cheekiness.

The youth. So tender, so unsure.

But his hands.

It was always with his hands.

That she knew where she stood.

How he felt.

About her.

And that was enough.

To trust.

To live each day in the knowing.

To see each message. In the knowing.

Knowing how he felt.

How he’d always feel.

No matter what changed between them.

To each of them.