No words could ever truly describe her.
No poem he could write,
no sentence he could string together,
would ever be enough
to tell her what she means to him.
Every photograph holds a memory,
and every memory feels like a little piece of magic.
Raindrops danced around them
in the Florida rain
as they made their way
to frozen Butterbeer.
He walked beside her slowly,
watching her be her wonderfully goofy self,
casting spells at windows
as though the world had disappeared
and Hogwarts had somehow found them.
They laughed.
They wandered.
They sat together with a snack,
letting the moment exist
without asking it to become anything more.
And maybe that's what he loves most.
Not the grand adventures.
Not the perfect photographs.
Not the moments that belong in a storybook.
It's the simple things.
Walking beside her.
Hearing her laugh.
Watching her be herself.
Sharing something sweet.
Getting caught in the rain.
Because somewhere between
the laughter and the raindrops,
the spells and the Butterbeer,
he realized something:
He didn't need the world
to give him anything extraordinary.
He just needed
a few ordinary moments
with her.
And somehow,
with her,
ordinary never felt ordinary at all.
