One day, we escaped the world to look for a church—a church sought by many to fulfill wishes and to wish for fulfillments. On top of a slope, we found the church. Inside the church, you stood by the door and looked at Him. You looked at Him for too long, the few minutes seemed like an eternity. You were praying, I suppose. I stayed behind. I watched you—still looking at Him. I wondered what you were praying for.
Between the two of us, you were always the one who was more inclined to Him. And so I thought about your life and your family and assumed they contained your prayers. In that church, you prayed while I wondered.
That night, you asked, “Do you know what I prayed for?” “No,” I replied. “I asked Him to take away all your sadness so that you will be nothing else more but happy. Always.”
On Starbucks napkins, we wrote our plans. In between bus rides and long walks, we accepted each other wholly. On twenty-third of October year two thousand seven, our souls collided.
Eureka. I found it.
I found love. I found you.