Drifters We Are; Drifters We’d Be

At the crossroads, they met like rivers converging under an indigo sky, both drifters, wanderers who found in each other the quiet music of belonging. Their laughter spilled like honey in the cool night air; their dreams danced together in whispered promises, as if love was a warm fire to sit beside after the long, lonely road.

But love, as pure as it was, could not bend the lines of fate or turn the sands of time. It was as though they’d found a moment too brief to nestle their roots, too fragile to weather the turn of seasons. For as they stood at that crossroad, each facing their own horizon, they knew: love itself was never wrong, only time was fleeting, and sometimes hearts bloom in different soil.

“We are stars whose paths crossed,” they murmured softly, “celestial in our meeting, but destined to drift.” And as they parted, the ache in their chests was a tender reminder that some love exists only to be remembered—a quiet echo, a soft ache, a memory of warmth. Love endures, even in separation, forever unbroken by distance or time.

For in the language of the heart, no love is wasted, no touch in vain. And when they look back, it will be with knowing smiles, with whispered truths shared only with the stars.