24th February, 2025

night inside Wetherspoons, neon flicker from the fruit machines, pub half-lit and humming low,

I was nursing a pint I didn’t really want when I saw them

— couple by the window, backs to the noise, heads dipped close like the rest of the room didn’t exist,

his hand found hers under the table, slow and careful like it meant something, like it was the first time or maybe the last,

her face tilted toward him, soft in the dim light,

pint glasses in front of them catching reflections like stained glass,

and for a second everything else felt far away.