Hope
Arbima M. wilson
One day you walk into a cafe and there she is. It's as simple as that. As easy as that. Then forever after, you spend your life, walking into cafes, hoping he'll magically appear. Like she did the first time. Or there would be someone else, just like her, sitting, with his head buried in a book. He would turn to look at you and it would all begin again.
When love finds you, it doesn't come with crashing waves or thunderbolts. It appears in a song on the radio or a particular blue in the sky. It dawns on you slowly, like a warm winter sunrise-where the promise of summer shines out from within.
We number our days and divide our seasons. We endlessly define what it is to be in love. When in truth, spring blurs into summer and always has, long before that line was ever drawn. Your love for her is the same-it runs wild and free. Like the air around you, it stretches all across the world, it does not leave a single thing untouched. You carry that love with you, like a bright and blazing beacon, a straight line from your heart to his. And it keeps alive that aching, throbbing hope, that somewhere in the world, there is a cafe and within those walls, he is there, hoping just as much as you.