Kate, Always: In Yellow Bloom

I once believed that the loudest kind of love was the most real-the fireworks, the declarations, the ones that echo through hallways and hallways of people who'll never forget how they made you feel.
But then I met her.
And she wasn't loud.
She was a quiet kind of storm.

The kind that enters through the edges of your life-through the accidental glances, the small talks, the unexpected smiles on rainy afternoons. The kind that blooms slowly, like yellow flowers pushing through pavement cracks in the middle of the city. Unnoticed. Unapologetic.

Her name was Kate.
She called me weak once.
I called her sunshine.

And somehow, between all our silences and crossed signals, we became each other's turning point.

I gave her flowers she never saw.
She gave me laughter I never thought I deserved.
We were a million missed chances-but fate kept giving us just enough rope to pull each other back. A group chat. A game. A mango shake order. A milk tea walk. A Roblox farm.

This isn't a perfect love story.
It's not full of passion explosions or fate-shouting-from-the-sky kind of moments.

It's the type that grows in the quiet. In long stares. In shared playlists. In Bible studies and silly fights. In birthdays where confessions fall flat. In karaoke nights where a guy learns to sing her favorite song. In waiting. In becoming. In trying again.

This story is mine.
And hers.
And maybe-if life is kind-ours.

So here it is.
A love story that bloomed in yellow.
And in the end, we didn't say "I love you" first.
We said,
"Welcome home."