[Lục Tuyết Kỳ]

Light drifted through a sky veiled in soft grey, gently silencing the world. A tender rain fell, fine as lace, tracing the windows in silvery threads, softening edges and slowing time.

Tucked inside the calm of home, we cradled warm mugs between our hands. I leaned over the puzzle with the blue guitar and blooming roses, each piece clicking into place like a forgotten memory finding its way home. Across from me, she flipped through a tabloid, lifting an eyebrow now and then at headlines too absurd to say aloud. The butterflies on the puzzle hovered just above the frets, fragile and half-formed. She said they looked like thoughts in mid-flight, still deciding where to land.

She is one of those rare, time-worn friends. The kind who has known you through every wild, weathered chapter. The one who’s known you since back when heartbreak meant slamming doors and freedom was a fake ID and a borrowed dress. From the girl who used to race cars and climb waterfalls to the woman who now wears soft rings of memory around her heart, she has seen every version of me and stayed.

We’ve been friends since back when curfews were strict, heartaches were dramatic, and our biggest rebellion was sneaking into Queen Bee to cheer on her cousin, singing forbidden love songs in a sequined dress two sizes too tight. 

We’ve never agreed on everything. In fact, we rarely do. Politics. Parenting. How many shots of espresso are acceptable after noon. Whether pineapple belongs on pizza (which, by the way, is absolutely valid 😂). She knows exactly what will make me roll my eyes. I know which sentence will earn me her dramatic gasp and a flurry of Vietnamese sarcasm.

Over the years, we’ve grown into our own wildly different lives. Me, the analytical one, always dissecting patterns and motives, leading with courtroom logic. Her, the tough-love realist who handles life head-on and moves by instinct. She’s the kind of woman who fixes her own washer, trims her lawn with stubborn precision, and once chopped down two perfectly healthy trees because raking leaves had officially stopped being fun. I told her that’s not exactly the spirit of subtle yard maintenance. She calls me a walking cross-examination. I say she operates on vibes and caffeine. 😆

And yet, somehow, we’ve stuck. Two very different people, stitched together by decades of history, trust, and just the right amount of mischief. Somewhere between the espresso and the lull, her words lingered in the space between us.

“Our loved ones are only here on loan.”

I didn’t flinch. I just smiled. That smile she knows too well, the one that says a 1,000-word counterargument is already forming in my head, complete with layered metaphors, logical structure, and a closing line designed to haunt her for days. She probably said it just to get that look. She got it. That’s just how we are.

So I held her words quietly, but let mine rise beneath them.

Love is not a loan.

You have known the kind of love that does not arrive with a deadline or behave like a guest. It does not wait politely at the door, counting the days. It settles in without asking. It stays. Not because it must, but because it wants to.

It’s in the way he runs warm air through your hair, steady and familiar. The way he lifts the towel from your hands and threads his fingers through each strand, committing your softness to memory. Because caring for you isn’t something he tries to do - it’s something he simply is.

His kisses land soft and wordless on your forehead, asking for nothing, giving everything. They carry no urgency, only truth - “I am here. You are safe. You are mine, love.”

His jacket lands on your shoulders before you even feel the cold. His eyes watch with reverence, making sure you are warm enough to tell your story when you’re ready. As if you are still his favorite story.

The nights, when the world is still and breath drifts in rhythm, your body and soul remember. Not in ache, but in warmth. Roses bloom where his presence once lingered, petals nestled gently in the quiet space between longing and love. Each one holds the imprint of his care, a whisper of wind through your bones, tenderness painted in invisible strokes only your soul can see, leaving ember in its wake. A secret garden tended not with urgency, but with reverence. Not bruises, but blossoms. Not possession, but poetry - a love song composed in silence and felt in every note.

And sometimes, without ceremony, he says something that settles quietly into your chest and stays.

“You are not passing through my life. You are the still point everything else moves around.”

And just like that, you understand.

Love is not borrowed.
It is not temporary.
It is not something meant to be given back.

It stays.
It takes root.
It becomes the rhythm beneath your breathless pause.
The reason you feel safe enough to exhale.

Some truths do not need to be defended.
They just live in you.

And yes, I still love pineapple on pizza. And I stand by that, too. 😝

LTK

PS. Finished and ready to frame, 1000-piece puzzle completed. Satisfied! 😅