The good days didn't announce themselves.
They arrived quietly, folded into routine, easy to mistake for any other. And because of that, they felt honest. Unstaged. Like something that didn't need to be held carefully to exist.
That day began without intention.
Her morning class was canceled. Mine ended early. We met near the steps outside one of the lecture halls, both lingering with no clear reason to leave.
"So," she said, glancing at her phone before slipping it back into her pocket, "are you heading somewhere?"
"Not really."
She smiled. "Good."
We walked off campus without discussing it. The streets nearby were calmer than the ones closer to the station, lined with houses that felt lived-in—bicycles leaning against walls, plants growing unevenly in pots, laundry drying in the open air.
She slowed near a small bakery.
"It smells good," she said.
"You always notice things like that."
"That's because you don't," she replied, matter-of-fact.
Inside, the air was warm, the shelves crowded with things we couldn't name properly. We stood close at the counter, pointing, hesitating, laughing softly when the clerk corrected us.
Outside, she broke off a piece of what we'd bought and handed it to me without asking.
"Well?" she said.
"Good," I admitted. "Better than expected."
She smiled, satisfied, as if that had been her intention all along.
We walked while we ate, crumbs falling unnoticed, our steps unhurried. Our hands brushed occasionally when one of us gestured too widely. Neither of us reacted.
At a small park we hadn't planned to reach, we sat on a bench beneath a tree casting uneven shade. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, settling in patches across her hair and shoulders.
She leaned back, stretching her arms.
"I like places like this," she said. "They feel overlooked."
"Like they're not trying to be anything."
"Exactly."
We stayed longer than we needed to. She talked about a class she'd unexpectedly enjoyed, about a drawing she'd started and stopped halfway through. I told her about a lecture that only made sense at the end, about a professor who reminded me of someone we used to know.
She laughed at that, leaning slightly toward me.
"You remember strange things."
"Only the ones that don't matter."
She considered it. "Those usually last."
Later, we wandered again.
A bookstore appeared without warning, narrow and dim, its sign slightly crooked. Inside, shelves leaned inward, books stacked wherever they fit. We browsed slowly, occasionally holding something up for the other to see.
"You'd like this," she said, as she always did.
"You say that about everything."
"And I'm still right."
She paused near a display of sketchbooks, fingers tracing the edges.
"I never know how to start," she said quietly.
"Maybe you don't have to," I replied. "Maybe you just start badly."
She glanced at me, then smiled, like she was storing the thought somewhere.
By the time we stepped outside again, the light had begun to soften. Afternoon gave way to evening without asking permission.
"Hungry?" I asked.
"A little."
We found a small place tucked between two shops, unremarkable enough to feel safe. We sat near the window, menus untouched for a while, talking instead.
She stirred her drink absent-mindedly.
"Do you think we'll remember days like this?" she asked.
"Probably not clearly."
She nodded. "That's okay."
When the food arrived, we ate slowly. Not because it was special, but because there was no reason to hurry. She brushed something from the corner of her mouth, noticed me watching, and laughed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You always say that."
"And you never believe me."
"Because you're bad at lying," she said.
The evening settled in quietly.
Streetlights flickered on one by one as we walked back toward the station. The air cooled just enough to notice. Somewhere along the way, she slipped her hand into mine. It felt natural enough that I didn't comment on it.
We didn't talk much after that.
The day had already said what it needed to.
At the station, she stopped and turned to me.
"This was nice," she said.
"It was."
"We should do things like this more often."
"We probably will."
She smiled, trusting that answer without questioning it.
As she walked away, I didn't feel the familiar pull of distance. No hesitation. No quiet fear of what came next.
Just the simple satisfaction of knowing the day had been good.
That night, lying in bed, I tried to pick out a single moment worth holding onto.
The bakery.
The park.
The bookstore.
Her hand in mine.
None of them stood out more than the others.
And that was what made it ordinary.
Because happiness didn't always arrive as something sharp or unforgettable. Sometimes, it settled in so gently that you only noticed it later—when you realized you'd stopped bracing yourself.
For now, that was enough.