A Universe of Two

We came from different worlds, shaped by forces that could have kept us strangers. I was raised in a storm—everything heightened, amplified, too much and never enough. The air around me crackled with voices, expectation, the weight of things I could touch but never seem to hold. He came from something quieter, not gentle but measured, a place I didn’t understand. Loud and mean He was sharp where I was raw, calculated where I was reckless.

We crashed into each other with all the force of two desperate beings reaching for solid ground. Some years were unkind. We wounded each other and left scars that pulsed beneath the surface of our shared history. But even in our worst moments, even when we became unrecognizable to ourselves, we never turned away.

There was something in the way we always fit, not neatly, not easily, but inevitably. When I fractured, he held the shards without fear of being cut. When he sank, I found a way to breathe for both of us. We did not save each other in the way stories promise—cleanly, heroically—but in the messy, brutal way of those who refuse to let go.

We built something together, not perfect, not always peaceful, but real. A universe of two, bound not by ease but by the unshakable knowledge that somehow, against all reason, we belonged.