2nd Person Prose Poetry, told from both points of view.
You loved the way she moved. Loose and lanky, without an ounce of grace. But so happy. She was always so happy.
You aren't exactly sure when you decided you were in love, it just became a daily fact. No one is more important to you than her.
When she laughed her confession off, you completely stopped. Everything stopped; except her, of course, she just laughed and blushed.
You stuttered out, "Wait, what?" And then you smiled and laughed and hugged her, gasping, laughing, "I love you, too."
She pulled away, serious, and said something, and you panicked. But then she giggled and smiled like the sun and she kissed you. And you smiled against her.
It was warm.
You loved the way she moved. Elegant and relaxed, without an ounce of spontaneity. But so happy. A type of calm contentedness.
The moment you feel in love in jolted through your body. She was graduating, and she smiled at you from the stage and the world exploded in color. No one has ever been more important to you than her, but this was the moment it stopped being a platonic importance.
You confessed two years later; the night you graduated. You were certain she wouldn't agree, so you made it into a joke, but you could tell you were bright red.
She looked worried, but then she was hugging you and laughing. You pulled away, shocked, "I didn't think you'd say that." And before she could panic, as you knew she would, you kissed her: fast and rushed and awkward. But then she was kissing you back. You tipped your head up towards her, humming happily. "I love you," you said.
It was warm.