“I don’t have a story, romance or words tonight,” he spoke. “I’m tired.”
“That’s alright,” Anna affirmed. “You’re allowed to be tired. You don’t have to always keep pressing believing something is expected or required of you. You’re allowed to be human. You’re allowed to be real—just you as you are…I still love you,” Anna told. “I love you, not just the stories and the words, you as you are, even when tired and empty and at end of day when all you want is sleep.” Anna smiled, blushing in remembrance of ways they’d shared the romance found and alive amidst the entirely unromantic; thought forming she believed silly but desired still to say and so she did, “Sometimes,” Anna shared, “that’s when I love you most.”
Having spoken, she looked to him. His tired eyes were given light, blush too in show—more in sense than colored sight—through deep tan of his face.
“Why don’t you go to sleep, rest and restore, and when you wake—refreshed and anew—then write of your dreams in morning’s spirit should the romance be restored…I’ll love you even if you don’t, but if you do, I’d love to read—and live and share—the way you write it so.”