Alex

February 14th began quietly. Light filtered through the parted curtains, spread across the walls, touching the shelves, mirror, pillows, and bedspread. The floor was cool, the air fresh with a faint scent of the winter outdoors. The bed had grown cold, the pillow beside it remained untouched. The silence was broken only by the creaking of doors, footsteps, and the dull hum of cars. The kitchen was clean: the sink was empty, the countertops were wiped clean, the kettle was on the stove. Alex's jacket was missing, his shoes were missing. His phone showed missed calls. Outside, the city was living its usual February life: people were carrying cakes and bouquets, shop windows were decorated with hearts, cars reflected the sun's rays on the wet pavement. More than an hour passed. Every sound—footsteps on the floor, a quiet hum from the kitchen—seemed distinct. Then there was a knock on the door. Alex walked in: his jacket slightly damp, his hair tousled, his cheeks rosy. In his hands was a bouquet of light-colored roses and a box containing a silver bracelet. Over his shoulder was a carrier with a kitten: white with gray spots, with blue eyes. He placed the bouquet on the nightstand, the box next to it, and lowered the carrier onto the sofa. The kitten emerged cautiously, sniffed the pillow, and curled up. Alex sat up, petted the kitten, straightened the rose petals, and glanced around the room. The silence was peculiar—not emptiness, but a presence that hadn't yet spoken a word. When the kitten settled down, Alex looked at you and said: "I love you. And I want us to spend every day together, sharing the joy, care, and love that we have between us."