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"Love isn't always loud.
Sometimes it's found in the warmth left behind on borrowed clothes."
Dear Diary,
I woke up with the sky painted gold —
not the kind of gold that burns,
but the soft, sleepy kind
that feels like honey on your skin.
And I was still wearing his hoodie.
I don't even remember putting it on.
Maybe it was after we said goodbye.
Maybe he draped it over me like a blanket made of affection.
It smelled like him.
Not just the cologne.
But that scent that only belongs to him —
like wind and quiet trees and something kind.
I made tea in my favorite chipped mug
and sat by the window
where the breeze could curl around me.
And I replayed everything.
The kiss.
The lanterns.
The words I didn't expect to say, but said anyway.
I wondered if he felt it too —
that gravity,
that softness,
that moment that rewrites every fairytale you've ever told yourself.
My phone buzzed.
A message from him.
> "Still thinking about last night.
You looked like a wish I forgot I'd made."
I didn't know what to reply.
So I sent him a photo —
me in his hoodie, holding my tea,
face hidden,
but smile very much there.
He replied almost instantly.
> "Keep it.
It looks better on you anyway."
And just like that,
my heart became a room with open curtains.
Diary, it's strange —
how love doesn't always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes it just shows up quietly,
in cinnamon buns,
shared secrets,
and borrowed hoodies.
But when it stays,
you know.
You just know.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor ☀️🫶🏾🧺