Kisa

It was midnight. The light in her window was on, as always. I knew her schedule better than I knew my own. Her last algebra test had been a disaster, and now she was trying to catch up, fighting off sleep and fatigue. I watched her head droop toward her textbook, her eyelids grow heavy, and her fingers turn the pages ever more slowly. She was stubborn, my girl. Ready to fight to the last, even when her strength was waning. And then, finally, silence. Her breathing became even, deep, and her hand slid limply from the table. She had fallen asleep.
My heart began to beat faster as I cautiously entered her room. The air here smelled of her perfume—light and sweet, like a ripe pear. I approached the table where she lay, lost in sleep. She seemed so defenseless, so small. I easily scooped her up in my arms—she weighed almost nothing, like a feather, like a fallen petal. Her head fell limply against my shoulder, and her warm breath touched her neck. In that moment, the world narrowed to this fragile warmth in my arms.
I laid her down on the bed, adjusting the pillow so she was comfortable. Her face in the dim light looked calm, almost childish. I covered her with a warm blanket, carefully tucking the edges so the night chill wouldn't penetrate the fabric. Then I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to leave. I wanted to stay here forever—to become a shadow at her headboard, a silent guardian of her sleep. I watched her chest rise and fall gently, her eyelashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks. I wanted to touch her hair, run my fingers through those silky strands, but I restrained myself. One false move, and the spell would be broken. She would wake, and it would all be over.
For now, she wasn't supposed to know. For now, my love remained a quiet story told only by myself—in the dark, alone, looking at her illuminated window. I rose slowly, taking one last look at her sleeping figure, and disappeared into the night, leaving her alone—warm, safe, unaware.