Almost Love, Then Everything - Chapter 51: Chapter 51
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Three years later…
The same apartment, but it looked a little different now.
There were more plants — trailing vines and little succulents that Jade swore she didn’t name, even though Leah caught her whispering to them sometimes. There were picture frames scattered on the shelves, crookedly placed but full of memories: a Polaroid from their first road trip, a blurry photo of their first Christmas tree (half-decorated, half-collapsed), and one grainy, heart-stopping shot of Leah asleep with their daughter on her chest — both of them curled in exactly the same position.
Two chipped mugs lived on the counter, initials etched at the bottom during a messy attempt at a pottery date night. They didn’t match — much like Leah and Jade in the beginning — but they fit together now, worn and familiar.
And Clementine, their fat orange cat, reigned over the apartment like a queen, particularly fond of perching on freshly folded laundry or stretching across any open laptop like she was trying to pause the world for a moment.
The fire escape still held memories.
Of whispered confessions.
Of late-night tears and laughter.
Of slow healing and even slower kisses.
Of “I’m sorry” and “I’m trying” and “I’m still here.”
But today, it held something new.
Leah sat outside with a book resting on her lap — though she hadn’t turned a page in almost half an hour. The crisp air brushed her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her attention kept drifting back inside to the woman moving around the kitchen, barefoot, laughing at the way the kettle was rattling like it was alive.
Jade.
Still Jade. Still hers.
Still the only thing in the world that could make Leah fall in love just by smiling at a teacup.
They had grown into something steady.
Not perfect. Never perfect.
But full of a different kind of magic — the kind that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
Their mornings were filled with sleepy kisses and messy hair.
Their afternoons, with errands and noise and sometimes tantrums (from their toddler or one of them, depending on the day).
Their evenings, with shared takeout containers, tired feet pressed against each other on the couch, and soft lullabies whispered down the hallway.
They still argued sometimes.
About who forgot the laundry in the washer.
About what show to binge next.
About whether Jade had, in fact, used the last of the almond milk or if it had just mysteriously vanished again.
But the arguments never lasted.
They always ended in laughter.
Or apologies made over mugs of cocoa.
Or in Leah pressing her forehead to Jade’s and saying, “Let’s not waste today being right.”
Because what they had now — this life, this home, this family — was something they refused to risk over the small stuff.
That weekend, they visited Jade’s parents — who were now affectionately obsessed with their granddaughter, spoiling her with second helpings and tiny pink socks. And Leah’s mom, who had finally warmed to Jade after three years, two birthdays, and a surprisingly competitive board game night that ended with her begrudgingly admitting, “She’s sharp. I like her.”
The drives were filled with car snacks and sing-alongs, and their daughter yelling “Again!” every time Leah finished the same silly bedtime story from the back seat.
They weren’t trying to be the perfect couple.
They were just trying.
Every single day.
And somehow, that had become more than enough.
That night, back home, the baby finally down after her third glass of water and fourth hug request, Leah and Jade lay in bed.
Clementine was sprawled between them like an immovable mountain, purring smugly.
Jade turned, brushing Leah’s arm, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you ever miss the beginning?”
Leah opened her eyes, already smiling.
“No,” she said simply, brushing her fingers across Jade’s cheek. “The beginning was full of fear. Beautiful, yes. But uncertain. This… waking up beside you, even when you hog the blankets… this is the part I’d live a thousand lives for.”
Jade looked at her for a long time, then leaned in and kissed her like she always did — slow and soft, as if the world could wait a little longer.
They didn’t end in fireworks.
There was no grand finale, no cinematic crescendo.
They grew like wildflowers.
Like laughter echoing down the hallway.
Like the quiet joy of folding onesies and chasing sticky toddler hands.
Like something ordinary that became extraordinary because of the love placed gently inside it, every single day.
They grew in the pauses.
In the mundane.
In the choosing — not once, but constantly.
Because some love stories aren’t about falling.
They’re about staying.
THE
— was never just about the falling.
It was about the staying.
About the rebuilding.
About the growing.
Together.
The same apartment, but it looked a little different now.
There were more plants — trailing vines and little succulents that Jade swore she didn’t name, even though Leah caught her whispering to them sometimes. There were picture frames scattered on the shelves, crookedly placed but full of memories: a Polaroid from their first road trip, a blurry photo of their first Christmas tree (half-decorated, half-collapsed), and one grainy, heart-stopping shot of Leah asleep with their daughter on her chest — both of them curled in exactly the same position.
Two chipped mugs lived on the counter, initials etched at the bottom during a messy attempt at a pottery date night. They didn’t match — much like Leah and Jade in the beginning — but they fit together now, worn and familiar.
And Clementine, their fat orange cat, reigned over the apartment like a queen, particularly fond of perching on freshly folded laundry or stretching across any open laptop like she was trying to pause the world for a moment.
The fire escape still held memories.
Of whispered confessions.
Of late-night tears and laughter.
Of slow healing and even slower kisses.
Of “I’m sorry” and “I’m trying” and “I’m still here.”
But today, it held something new.
Leah sat outside with a book resting on her lap — though she hadn’t turned a page in almost half an hour. The crisp air brushed her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her attention kept drifting back inside to the woman moving around the kitchen, barefoot, laughing at the way the kettle was rattling like it was alive.
Jade.
Still Jade. Still hers.
Still the only thing in the world that could make Leah fall in love just by smiling at a teacup.
They had grown into something steady.
Not perfect. Never perfect.
But full of a different kind of magic — the kind that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
Their mornings were filled with sleepy kisses and messy hair.
Their afternoons, with errands and noise and sometimes tantrums (from their toddler or one of them, depending on the day).
Their evenings, with shared takeout containers, tired feet pressed against each other on the couch, and soft lullabies whispered down the hallway.
They still argued sometimes.
About who forgot the laundry in the washer.
About what show to binge next.
About whether Jade had, in fact, used the last of the almond milk or if it had just mysteriously vanished again.
But the arguments never lasted.
They always ended in laughter.
Or apologies made over mugs of cocoa.
Or in Leah pressing her forehead to Jade’s and saying, “Let’s not waste today being right.”
Because what they had now — this life, this home, this family — was something they refused to risk over the small stuff.
That weekend, they visited Jade’s parents — who were now affectionately obsessed with their granddaughter, spoiling her with second helpings and tiny pink socks. And Leah’s mom, who had finally warmed to Jade after three years, two birthdays, and a surprisingly competitive board game night that ended with her begrudgingly admitting, “She’s sharp. I like her.”
The drives were filled with car snacks and sing-alongs, and their daughter yelling “Again!” every time Leah finished the same silly bedtime story from the back seat.
They weren’t trying to be the perfect couple.
They were just trying.
Every single day.
And somehow, that had become more than enough.
That night, back home, the baby finally down after her third glass of water and fourth hug request, Leah and Jade lay in bed.
Clementine was sprawled between them like an immovable mountain, purring smugly.
Jade turned, brushing Leah’s arm, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you ever miss the beginning?”
Leah opened her eyes, already smiling.
“No,” she said simply, brushing her fingers across Jade’s cheek. “The beginning was full of fear. Beautiful, yes. But uncertain. This… waking up beside you, even when you hog the blankets… this is the part I’d live a thousand lives for.”
Jade looked at her for a long time, then leaned in and kissed her like she always did — slow and soft, as if the world could wait a little longer.
They didn’t end in fireworks.
There was no grand finale, no cinematic crescendo.
They grew like wildflowers.
Like laughter echoing down the hallway.
Like the quiet joy of folding onesies and chasing sticky toddler hands.
Like something ordinary that became extraordinary because of the love placed gently inside it, every single day.
They grew in the pauses.
In the mundane.
In the choosing — not once, but constantly.
Because some love stories aren’t about falling.
They’re about staying.
THE
— was never just about the falling.
It was about the staying.
About the rebuilding.
About the growing.
Together.
End of Almost Love, Then Everything Chapter 51. Continue reading Chapter 52 or return to Almost Love, Then Everything book page.