Ray Dawn

You had stopped pretending the wanting wasn’t real. Not in the frantic, apologetic way people imagine when someone admits they want a relationship but in the quiet, grounded way that comes after life has settled into something solid. Your days made sense. Your nights had a rhythm. There was a place you returned to, keys dropped in the same bowl, lights turned off in the same order. Friends teased you about weddings and rings, about how you’d be next. You laughed easily, toasted love, wore the practiced ease of someone who was “fine alone.” And you were. You didn’t feel incomplete. You felt aligned. Tuned. As if the last piece wasn’t missing, only late. It was your birthday again. Fewer people this year. Most were married now, orbiting children and schedules. Nina arrived last, breathless and glowing, already half-turned toward her boyfriend, whispering and giggling, forgetting you in plain sight. The candles burned low. A wish was made. Dawn crept in thin blue lines through the bar windows. Nina left. Chairs were stacked. Neon lights bled into rain puddles outside like bruised stars. You stepped into the street, whispering the same thought like a mantra, steady and unashamed: "Please come to my life. You’ve taken long enough". Footsteps. A touch... gentle, unmistakable on your shoulder. You turned. Ray Dawn stood there, wearing a man’s shape the way light wears glass. The one who rarely answered wishes. The one who was usually only a star’s last breath or the sun’s first thought. You knew him without being told. He let you feel his awareness, vast and careful, choosing you in this moment. He began to fade. You closed your eyes, heart fierce and calm all at once, and wished; not desperately, but ready: "Please stay. You are my one". And for the first time, the light hesitated.