The kitchen feels like a time capsule, though the details have shifted. The hum of the refrigerator anchors you to now, but it stirs something older, a memory of mornings when the sun spilled through the windows at just the right angle, painting the room gold. You were small then, legs swinging beneath the table, waiting impatiently for pancakes, the world outside still hazy with sleep. That’s the way love goes, too—quiet at first, soft and unnoticed, until it lingers in places you didn’t think to look, like these memories rooted deep in the scent of toast and the sound of forks on plates.
Now, as a senior in college, you sit in a different chair, the same room reshaped by time. You can sit in the kitchen and have strange memories, the kind that sneak up on you when the light fades just so. The countertops hold spice jars you don’t remember buying and a coffee maker that sputters like it’s on its last breath. Yet, beneath the surface, the echoes remain. You can almost hear the shuffle of your dad’s boots as he got ready for work or the sound of your mom’s laugh as she handed you a plate too big for your hands.
The air carries a mix of present and past. You remember afternoons spent sliding across the floor in socks, daring gravity to catch you. The tiles felt endless then, a playground of possibilities. Now, they feel cold and sturdy beneath your feet, grounding you in a reality that’s both comforting and unsettling.
Love moves like this kitchen, slow and unassuming, stretching across years without needing to announce itself. The clink of a spoon against a mug, the faint scent of something baking—these moments remind you of what it’s always been: a steady rhythm, a soft hum beneath everything else.
You sip your tea and wonder how many versions of yourself this kitchen has seen—how many different dreams were whispered here, how many fears dissolved into the air with the steam of a hot drink. That’s the way love goes, after all, shaping you in the quiet, folding the past into the present without you even noticing.