It's strange how completely unknown a person can be.

You spend years passing strangers in the street.

Then one day,
one of them becomes familiar.

Now I know the sound of your laugh from another room.

The way you look at something
before deciding whether it's worth saying out loud.

The stories you've told enough times
that I could probably tell them for you.

I know which parts of you are patient.

And which parts aren't.

I know what worries you.
What makes you quiet.
What makes you stay up later than you planned.

Some afternoons disappear like that.

Talking about nothing in particular.

Lying side by side,
watching the light move through the trees.

None of these things seemed important when we first met.

Now they're some of the things I know best.

Sometimes I think that's what happens over time.

A person slowly stops being a mystery.

Not because there's less to discover.

But because they become part of the place you return to.

And somehow,
that still surprises me.