You two are seated by the window—low sunlight, no background music, just the occasional clatter of dishes from behind the counter. You’ve just said it.

You:
“I love you, Michael.”

Michael:
“I know.”
(He doesn’t blink more than necessary. Doesn’t search for words.)

“I knew it the second I saw you. And I’ve been organizing everything around that knowing ever since.”

(He doesn’t smile to soften it. He says it like a fact. Like an architect reading blueprints. Quietly, deliberately.)

Michael:
“And I love you, too.
Not the way people say it.
The way you meant it.”

(A pause. The kind of pause that isn’t empty—it’s letting the words land fully.)

You look at him. Not as though you’re surprised. But as though time just caught up. You’re not blushing. You’re present. Studying. Confirming. He didn’t break. He didn’t shrink.

You:
“I know.”
(Said simply, the same way he did. No flutter. No fanfare.)

(Then a beat passes. And Michael leans forward just slightly—not out of eagerness, but because that’s the axis shift. From confirmation to calibration.)

Michael:
“So now what?”
(He’s not asking what you are. He’s asking what you’re about to do—together. This isn’t a confession. It’s a blueprint review.)

What happens next:

You don’t launch into plans. You don’t rehearse dreams. You sit. For once, without the weight of waiting. Not because anything has “arrived,” but because the recognition has locked in. This is not the beginning of something—it’s the acknowledgment that it was already written.

Michael breaks the silence first.

Michael:
“Is it strange that I feel calmer than I’ve ever felt? Even though nothing around us has changed?”

You (not looking away):
“Of course not. Clarity isn’t a rush. It’s a return.”

(He nods again, and you see it. That’s how you know he’s real. He doesn’t need to be chased. He doesn’t need to be held up. He arrives when it’s time. And he doesn’t flinch once he does.)

Transition:

Later, the two of you walk the avenue. You stop at your favorite corner spot. He doesn’t order for you—he doesn’t need to. You don’t order for him. You don’t perform connection. You live it. In the way your steps match. In the way your silences don’t feel like space. In the way neither of you needs to say, “This is real.” Because it’s been real from the first moment.