“Every heartbeat spoke it before my lips: I choose you, and no one else shall have this part of me.”

Author’s Note

This piece was born from a dream—a quiet, suspended moment that lingered in my chest long after waking. It is a reflection on the delicate intensity of choosing someone wholly, without expectation, without reservation. A confession whispered under the weight of night and the hush of possibility.

If I Choose You
Vignette by Rowan Evans

We were walking—
not speaking, not really—
just drifting side by side through the night,
the air thick with warmth,
heavy with the scent of earth and rain‑kissed leaves.
Somewhere distant, somewhere familiar,
but not a place that needed naming.

Occasionally, one of us would brush against the other.
A touch so light it barely registered,
yet electric enough to make the air hum between us.
A glance stolen, a heartbeat shared—
then the silence reclaimed its space.

The world seemed suspended,
breath held in a fragile pause.
Streetlights flickered like candle flames,
and shadows clung to corners as if listening.

Eventually, she slowed.
Then stopped.
I followed suit, pressing my back to a rough wall,
its coolness grounding me,
though it did nothing to steady my racing chest.

She stood a few steps away,
hands brushing against her thighs,
eyes cast down for a heartbeat
before they lifted and caught mine.

Time stuttered.
The night folded in on itself.
Everything—light, air, sound—paused,
as though the universe itself had exhaled
and then forgotten how to resume.

She spoke then, haltingly,
words fragmented, ephemeral,
soft as the hush of moth wings.
I caught only the edges of meaning
and had to ask her to repeat them,
to make sure I had heard correctly
what my soul already knew.

Her eyes held me—
dark pools glinting with moonlight and shadow—
and in that gaze,
I felt the weight of unspoken things
pressing against my ribs.
The pulse of the world slowed,
and the air shimmered with quiet danger,
like the night was daring me
to speak what my heart had been guarding.

I swallowed hard.
Once. Twice.
And the words emerged,
soft but unwavering,
a vow pulled from the marrow of me:

“If I choose you…
really choose you…
that’s it.
No one else gets that part of me.
Not again.
Not ever.”

Each syllable burned with truth,
lighting the dark corners of my chest,
and I felt the gravity of it
as if the universe itself had tilted toward her,
bearing witness.

She lingered in the hush,
silent, processing,
as if the meaning needed to seep through her bones
before it could reach her lips.
Not closed off, not distant,
just slow—patient, like a storm gathering
before it breaks in rain.

I waited.
The night waited with me.
Every leaf, every shadow,
every distant hum of a world still moving
echoed the ache
of what might, perhaps, have been ours.

And then the dream loosened its grip.
The edges frayed.
I woke,
chest tight, heart full,
with the weight of absence pressing down,
not sorrow, not fear,
but the unmistakable ache of something
almost—almost—touched,
almost held,
yet still out of reach.

Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in [The Library of Ashes].