in the rhythm of their breath.
From Kuwait’s notebook:
“You don’t teach me how to love.
You simply exist—
and love becomes possible.
I’m not afraid to touch you.
With you, I want to be a hero.
I want to be alive.”
From Jeanne’s journal:
“He doesn’t call me ‘sunshine’
and doesn’t send long texts.
But he notices when I’m tired.
He brings me coffee when I go quiet.
He tucks my hair behind my ear
like he’s protecting it from the wind.
And for the first time,
I feel that love isn’t a racing pulse—
it’s steady breathing.”
Chapter 7. The Ocean Within Us
When I touched her—
I could hear my soul singing.
And she answered in the same melody.
They went to the ocean.
Just like that—no date, no occasion.
They rented a little wooden cabin not far from the shore,
with a blanket that smelled of sea salt
and windows tapped gently by the morning wind.
On the first night, they sat on the beach.
Bare feet in the cold sand.
A warm jacket shared between them.
The sky was black, but full of stars.
The moon—full and glowing.
Jeanne lay with her head on his chest.
He ran his fingers through her hair,
which smelled of shampoo and night.
“Imagine,” she said,
“that we live here. Always. In love.”
“For how long?”
“Forever—but slow.”
He didn’t answer.
He just turned her toward him.
And kissed her—truly—for the first time.
Not fast.
Not hungrily.
But as if everything he wanted to say
could only be said like this.
Her lips were soft, pink, sweet—like summer.
And in that kiss, there wasn’t just taste.
There was voice.
There was soul.
Tongue touched tongue.
At first, shy. Then—braver.
And between them—no more air.
Only the heat of skin.
And the silence that holds you like a blanket.
He felt her hands sliding over his neck.
Felt her breathing quicken.
Felt her body seeking closeness.
They lay side by side,
looking up.
And suddenly—they both laughed.
From happiness.
From the impossibility of holding on to it all—
but the deep desire to remember.
“Do you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?”
“My soul.”
“Is it singing?”
“No.”
“It’s merged with yours.
Now it only sings together.”
Then came hands.
Bare. Warm.
He touched her thigh, her waist.
She traced his stomach, his shoulders, his lips.
And none of it was for passion’s sake.
It was for truth.
The truth lived in skin.
The truth lived in breath.
The truth—was them.
In the morning, they woke up wrapped in each other.