Love me like the morning loves the Sun

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A serene sunset paints the sky in vibrant oranges and blues, as two figures sit on a dock. Mist rises from the water, reflecting the warm glow, creating a peaceful, dreamlike atmosphere.

They met each morning at the pier, not by promise, but by habit of the heart.
She came first, carrying a cup of still-warm tea and a notebook damp with fog.
He arrived moments later, always wordless, the sound of his shoes like a soft metronome marking the time between them.
They never spoke of the train that would take him away, or of the letter she kept folded in her sleeve.
Instead they watched the lake perform its slow miracles:
how the mist opened its pale hands,
how the sun rehearsed its entrance in a trembling curtain of gold.
“Love me like the morning loves the sun,” she once whispered.
He nodded, not because he agreed, but because he understood what she meant:
that every embrace must one day turn into light.
When the departure bell echoed from the distant station,
they didn’t stand.
They sat there a little longer, as if time would mistake their stillness for eternity.
The wind moved the leaves for them, small, amber messengers spinning in air,
and the water reflected what words could not bear:
the beauty of almost-forever, glowing just before it fades.
When she finally turned to leave,
he stayed.
He watched her walk into the fog until she disappeared,
and in that moment he realized,
the lake had learned to breathe again.