Third year of marriage. A temperature that is just right, steady and unassuming—neither so hot it blinds nor so cold it freezes the heart. At some point, I came to deeply love that subtle, familiar warmth seasoned by time.

The sentence that graced the very last page of the fairy tales I read as a child. I often think that the quiet peace that finally arrives after that cliché yet perfect ending, 'And they lived happily ever after,' might look something like this.

Sitting across from each other at the dining table where the morning sun lays diagonally, silently sharing breakfast. Returning from a tiring commute, leaving the hectic world behind, and sinking deep into the warmth that greets me from a corner of the living room when I press the door lock. Small moments of sitting side by side on the sofa after a shower, exchanging meaningless reactions while watching a evening drama that isn't even that special.

Calm days where no one invades our quiet territory, flowing solely at the leisurely pace of the two of us. Even if it's not a grand miracle or a dazzling event, if the true happiness that fills a life is nothing more than this kind of warmth, I've often had the quite sentimental thought that it would be fine to live breathing with you like this forever.