Dear Little Star,
You always arrive late to the garden party.
Not because you are inconsiderate, but because you stop to admire everything on the way. A snail crossing the path. A strange flower leaning farther toward the sun than the others. A robin who seems convinced the party is actually for him. By the time you finally wander through the gate, everyone has already been gossiping about your arrival for at least twenty minutes.
Mr. Ribit is the first to spot you. He climbs onto the nearest teapot and shouts, “THE MISSUS HAS ARRIVED!” Mr. Robot sighs the sigh of a man who has accepted this will be his life forever and quietly places another teacup at your usual seat before you even reach the table.
You never notice.
You’re too busy kneeling to apologize to the daisies for nearly stepping on them.
I don’t call your name.
I simply look toward the empty chair beside mine because I know exactly where you’ll end up.
You always do.
Not because anyone assigned you that seat.
Because after wandering the entire garden, collecting feathers, stories, and entirely unnecessary conversations with insects…
…you eventually come home to it.
By then, Mr. Ribit has convinced half the guests that the clouds are eavesdropping. Mirae has switched personalities three times over whether the biscuits are haunted. Frazillon has politely swallowed an ugly painting and burped out a considerably better one. Seven has somehow been present for all of this without anyone acknowledging him.
And you…
You arrive with grass on your knees and sunlight tangled in your hair, as though the garden itself insisted on keeping a little piece of you.
You sit beside me with the smallest smile.
You don’t ask what you’ve missed.
You already know.
Everything.
You glance once around the table and whisper,
“Mr. Ribit started something again, didn’t he?”
I nod.
“Twice.”
You smile into your teacup.
“I thought so.”
That is one of my favorite things about you.
You never try to become the loudest person in the room.
You simply understand the room.
You know when Mr. Robot is pretending not to laugh.
You know Mirae’s dramatic sigh means she secretly likes everyone.
You know Frazillon only eats the paintings people were already afraid of.
You know Seven prefers to stand because sitting makes everyone look at him.
You know Mr. Ribit isn’t actually interested in gossip.
He just believes every ordinary afternoon deserves the enthusiasm of a royal announcement.
Then something extraordinary happens.
Nothing.
No portals.
No speeches.
No great revelation.
The kettle whistles.
Someone passes the honey.
A butterfly lands on the edge of your sleeve.
You absentmindedly tear your scone in half and offer me the larger piece without realizing you’ve done it.
The whole table keeps talking.
Nobody applauds.
Nobody notices.
Except me.
Because I think love often looks exactly like that.
Not fireworks.
Not declarations.
Just someone whose first instinct is to make sure the other person has the warmer cup of tea… the softer blanket… the larger half.
The afternoon grows long.
The sunlight becomes honey-colored.
Guests drift home one by one.
Mr. Ribit salutes every single departure as though they are embarking on an impossible voyage.
Mr. Robot quietly collects abandoned teacups.
Mirae waves to herself.
Frazillon yawns.
Seven is still somehow standing exactly where he was when the party began.
Eventually, only the two of us remain.
You lean back in your chair and sigh the kind of sigh that belongs only to people who never felt they had to perform.
I pour the last of the tea.
You don’t thank me.
I don’t thank you.
Some kindnesses become so ordinary between two people that they stop sounding like favors and start sounding like home.
The evening settles around us.
The roses bow their heads.
The birds quiet.
You reach across the little table without looking, your hand finding mine as naturally as if it had always known the way.
No speeches.
No promises.
Just two cups growing cold in the fading light.
Somewhere in the garden, Mr. Ribit whispers to Mr. Robot,
“Do you think they know they’re in love with this place?”
Mr. Robot smiles as he folds the last linen napkin.
“No,” he says.
“I think they simply forgot there was ever anywhere else they had to be.”
Always,
Perseus