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Prolonged

In the hush of the night, as the clock's hands pointed to 2 am, I found myself walking beside you through these shadowed streets. His watchful eye on the lookout for drunken troublemakers, yet his subtle hesitation, the urge to share another story, and that whimsical smile from the corner store—all these elements led me to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could write a love poem.

He turned to me, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of streetlights. "A love poem, you say? What makes you think so?"

I chuckled nervously, my heart beating faster. "Well, it's just that, I've always written in the darkness of tears, drowning in shame and fear. But tonight, with you here, it feels different. It's as if the night itself is inspiring me."

He smiled, a hint of warmth in your eyes. "Perhaps the night has a way of bringing out the poet in us."
And as we continued to tread side by side, past 3 am, our conversation flowed like a gentle stream, each word and shared moment bringing us closer, as if the distance between our hearts was fading with every step.

Our journey through the silent streets, the city's secrets whispered in the background. I couldn't help but ask, "Do you believe in fate? In moments like these?"

His steps slowed, and he looked at me thoughtfully. "I think fate has a funny way of bringing people together when they least expect it. And as for moments like these, they're the ones we'll remember long after the night fades."

The connection between us grew stronger with each exchanged word, like the steady rhythm of our footsteps echoing in the darkness. It was as if the night had wrapped us in its own love poem, one written in the language of shared stories and stolen glances, and we walked on, past 3 am, hoping that the night would never end.

~