The apartment was nothing like what Talia had imagined for "the next chapter." The ceilings were low, the walls slightly scuffed, and the hot water only worked if you jiggled the faucet a very particular way. But the balcony—the balcony—was magic.
It jutted just enough over a sleepy back alley that you could hear the baker downstairs setting up each morning, smell fresh bread at dawn, and sip coffee in golden silence. And when it rained, it was like their own private theatre of thunder and glassy streets.
"This is where we build it," Talia whispered, standing at the edge of it with her hands on the railing. "It's small, and imperfect, and I think I love it already."
Ezra came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. "This is our space. Finally."
They had officially signed the lease earlier that afternoon—after much debate, coffee-fueled negotiations with the landlord, and Ezra triple-checking the wiring near the stove for "fire safety reasons." Their old routines—shared beds in two different apartments, shuffling between study nights and lecture mornings—were over.
Now, it was one key between the two of them.
One space. One future.
Unpacking took days. Talia insisted on organizing books by "vibe" instead of alphabetically. Ezra alphabetized his textbooks anyway and pretended not to care when Talia hid post-it notes with ridiculous jokes in between his pages.
They argued over where to hang the fairy lights. They compromised on a playlist for cooking. They learned the sound of each other's tired sighs, of early morning yawns, of quiet laughter at 2 a.m. when one couldn't sleep.
One night, while surrounded by half-assembled furniture and a pizza box on the floor, Talia asked, "Do you ever get scared we're rushing this?"
Ezra looked up from his plate. "Sometimes. But not because of you."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
He set the slice down, chewing thoughtfully before he spoke.
"It's just… no one teaches you how to grow into forever. You just keep choosing each other. And hoping the pieces fit."
Talia sat cross-legged, staring at her half-eaten slice.
"I used to think love was this thing that happened after you figured yourself out," she said. "But maybe it's part of how you figure it out. Together."
Ezra reached out, threading his fingers through hers. "Then we're doing it right."
The next morning, Talia woke up before Ezra for the first time in a while. She slipped out of bed, grabbed a blanket and coffee, and stepped out onto their balcony. It was early, the sky still tinged with pale lavender and the hum of the waking city just beginning.
She stared out at the rooftops, her ribbon ring still on her finger, though a little frayed now.
She thought about everything they'd gone through. The missed calls. The ghosting. The tears. The way Ezra had disappeared after that night, and the pain of rebuilding trust one piece at a time.
But somehow, here they were.
Together.
Still choosing each other.
Ezra appeared behind her, sleepy-eyed and warm, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
"Morning," he murmured.
She smiled, leaning into him.
"Ezra?"
"Hmm?"
"Would you still love me if I got old and wrinkly and made you go to farmers' markets every Sunday for the rest of our lives?"
He chuckled. "Absolutely."
"What if I became one of those people who labels everything in the fridge?"
He wrapped the blanket tighter around them both. "I'd probably join you."
She turned to face him. "What if I said I want this to be it? You and me. No ring yet. No pressure. Just… a promise."
Ezra met her eyes. "Then I'd say: I already promised you."
He pulled a tiny folded note from the pocket of his hoodie. Talia blinked.
"What's this?"
"Something I wrote when you fell asleep on the couch yesterday."
She unfolded it. It was a list. Like hers from the library.
Our Forever (In Progress):
Keep dancing in the kitchen
Start rotation at the same hospital
Never let you forget how much I love you
Keep the ribbon until it falls off—and then tie a new one
Say yes to the balcony life, every day
Talia grinned. "You're so soft. It's disgusting."
Ezra smirked. "And you love it."
"I do."
Later that day, they walked hand in hand to submit their hospital placement forms. One box checked: Same hospital preferred.
As they walked back, the sun finally peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the cobblestones.
No dramatic proposal. No fireworks. Just quiet mornings, ribbon rings, and a balcony that caught every version of their love—sunlight, rain, and everything in between.