The first ray of summer sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, soft and golden, tracing streaks across the wooden table. I paused, coffee spoon suspended mid-air—not breathing in the way sunlight danced on the ceramic mug, but in the sight of the woman standing by the balcony. Dina. Even in the quietest moments, she turned ordinary mornings into something bright.
She wore that old linen dress—the one dotted with small blue flowers we’d found at the flea market last spring—her hair still slightly damp from the shower, falling loosely over her shoulders. A breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of jasmine from the garden downstairs. It tangled in her hair, making her tuck strands behind her ears with a soft laugh. That laugh. Lighter than the summer air, warmer than the sunlight spilling around her, and I realized, not for the first time, how deeply I craved this—her, in this quiet, unscripted moment.
“Did you burn the toast again?” she teased, turning to look at me. The crinkles at the corners of her eyes were the same warm brown as the oak tree in the park where we’d had our first date. I set down the spoon, grinning, and crossed the room to stand beside her. The balcony railing was still cool from the night, but when her shoulder pressed against mine, the chill vanished instantly. Below us, a squirrel scampered up a tree, chasing the sunlight, and a bird began to sing—loud and clear, as if it too wanted to be part of this morning.
“I got distracted,” I said, nodding toward her. She blushed, a faint pink that matched the sunrise peeking over the roof, then leaned into me. We stood there for a while, saying nothing, just watching the world wake up—children laughing as they ran to the bus stop, an elderly man walking his dog, the sky shifting from pale pink to bright blue. It felt like a morning wrapped in a gift, slow and sweet, and I knew it wasn’t just the summer sun that made my chest feel tight. It was her. The way she noticed the small things—the way light hit the leaves, the bird’s song—the way she made even a quiet morning feel like an adventure.
She turned to me, her smile softening, and reached up to brush a crumb from my cheek. Her fingers were warm, and I leaned into her touch, savoring the moment. “I love summer mornings,” she said, her voice quiet. “Especially with you.” Then I kissed her, slow and gentle—the faint taste of her coffee still on her lips, the warmth of sunlight on our faces. The bird’s song faded into the background, the breeze stilled, and for a heartbeat, there was only us—two people, in love, on a quiet summer morning.
When we pulled away, she rested her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. The world outside kept waking up, but on this small balcony, time slowed down. I looked at her—her hair glinting in the sun, her eyes closed in contentment—and I knew this was love. Not grand gestures or fancy dates, but quiet mornings spent together, her body pressed against mine, her laughter lingering in the air.
The summer sun climbed higher, casting longer shadows, but we stayed there, wrapped in each other, unwilling to let the moment slip away. Because we knew mornings like this were precious—fleeting, but unforgettable. And as long as we had each other, every summer morning would be beautiful. Just like her.
