The years were sewn together in a rough and real story. Every paisa was saved; waits were interminable for those shaky calls; every opportunity to meet was animatedly seized; brief, burning days—this is what kept them going. "Mann, are we fading?" She would sometimes question, in a low voice. Then he would send her a tape-*Our Song, Part 4*-and she would laugh and wipe her tears, and they would carry on.
He showed up one evening in front of her door, half-dead rose in one hand and ring in another-simple, scratched, perfect. He looked tired, abad hair day, but his eyes shone. "Cassette," he said, kneeling before her; "you are my every chord, my every fight. Marry me, let us make this forever."
She dragged him up, wild in the grin, with tears of joy flowing freely. "You are late, you lug, but yes." As the ring slipped on, his hands were shaking like leaves, and they kissed-wild, sloppy, everything. Miles turned to dust.
Love's a long haul, all bumps and grace,
A scrappy fight to find your place,
A tune that hums through every scar,
A home that's built right where you are.