The rain tapped against the window, a gentle lullaby that wrapped around Pedro and Fernanda as they sat on the worn-out couch. The TV murmured in the background, forgotten—a black-and-white movie playing scenes of love and longing. But Pedro and Fernanda had their own story—a tale of stolen moments and whispered promises.
Pedro's arm rested along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing Fernanda's shoulder. She leaned into him, her head finding the crook of his neck. The room smelled of coffee and old books—a comforting blend that cocooned them from the world.
"Fernanda," Pedro said, his voice low, "do you ever wonder about our future?"
She chuckled. "Pedro, we're in our forties. Our future is—"
"—still unwritten," he finished. "We've danced around each other for years, Fernanda. Maybe it's time to stop."
She traced patterns on his hand. "Stop what?"
"Denying what's between us," Pedro said. "We've been friends, confidantes, but there's more, isn't there?"
Fernanda's heart raced. "Pedro, we're both divorced. We've seen love crumble. Maybe we're better off—"
"—alone?" he interrupted. "Fernanda, I've loved you since we were kids. Under the jacaranda tree, remember?"
She closed her eyes, the memory flooding back—their secret hideaway, the purple blossoms raining down. "Pedro, we were children."
"But we dreamed," he said. "We dreamed of forever, of dancing through life together."
And so, as the rain tapped against the window, Pedro and Fernanda leaned closer. Their lips met—a kiss that tasted of nostalgia and possibility. The couch sagged under their weight, and they sank into its embrace.
"Pedro," Fernanda whispered, "what if we fall asleep here? Just for tonight."
He chuckled. "Under the jacaranda tree of our memories?"
"Yes," she said. "And when we wake up, maybe we'll find our forever."
And so, as the rain played its lullaby, Pedro and Fernanda drifted into dreams—a future unwritten, a love rekindled. The black-and-white movie flickered, but their story—their kiss—was vivid, colorful, and real.
