You Are My Remedy

beautiful — deeply emotional and poetic.

She stood by the window, the rain tracing delicate paths down the glass, mirroring the tears she wasn’t letting fall. In her chest, a familiar ache twisted gently—not a pain she wished away, but a sweet kind of sorrow. A longing. A memory.
He used to say, “You’re the only kind of pain I’d never want to heal from.”
And she believed him.
He was wild at heart, a storm in human form. But with her, he found calm. She had seen his broken edges and held them gently—never trying to change him, only to love him.
"If I am a wound," he once whispered into her hair, "then you’re the remedy I don’t deserve but always crave."
She had laughed, touching his face. "You’re not a wound," she said. "You’re my madness. And I love being mad for you."
He would say she was his breath—his everything. She would tell him the sky turned more beautiful when he was near, that the world felt warmer, softer, when wrapped in his embrace. They used to dance in silence, just eyes meeting, her hand on his chest as if to hold his heartbeat in place.
But time, as it often does, tested them.
He grew afraid—afraid of the depth, of how much he needed her. And in that fear, he pulled away. With trembling hands, he left, saying nothing, but looking back too often.
She let him go.
But love doesn’t disappear. It lingers—in every corner of a home, every line of a poem, every echo in a song.
One evening, when the world outside was washed in silver moonlight, and her heart still beat to the rhythm of his name, he returned.
No words.
Just eyes.
Just breath.
He stepped forward, slowly, as if unsure if he was still welcome. And she—still madly in love—opened her arms.
"You’re my breath," she whispered. "You’re everything. Stay."
He held her as if the world had stopped spinning. He kissed her forehead as if it were a promise. And in her eyes, he once again found the beautiful madness that had saved him.
"Let me circle around you," he said with a breaking voice. "Let me love you the way you always did."
And she smiled, because some loves don’t need to be explained.
They just need to be held—again and again.