She may not be mine first, nor the last name I’ll ever whisper, but her love burns here, in this moment— and what else could matter more? She carries the ghosts of old flames, the ashes of other winters, and maybe one day she’ll carry new ones too. But tonight, she’s with me— and I’d be a fool to ask for eternity when I have her breath, her warmth, her now. She is not flawless. Neither am I. We stumble, we fracture, we bruise each other with our edges. Yet when she laughs, it breaks me open, and when she falters, it reminds me I’m only human too. She doesn’t think of me every hour, doesn’t drape her life in my name. But she gave me something rarer: a fragile part of her I could crush with a careless hand— her heart. So I will hold it— not because it is perfect, but because it is hers.