Vuestra historia de amor en vídeo

Ada, a year ago, we were two strangers standing under a bus stop roof that did almost nothing against the rain. You were trying to hold an umbrella, check the bus times, and keep a paper bag from falling apart all at once. I offered to help, then immediately dropped the bag. An orange rolled into a puddle. You laughed—not at me, exactly, but with the kind of laugh that made embarrassment feel easy. The bus was late, the rain kept falling, and somehow we never ran out of things to say. Our first date was in that tiny café with the wobbly table. I told you a terrible joke, and you laughed before admitting you had heard it years ago. Then you told me an even worse one. We stayed until the chairs were being stacked around us. Outside, the streets were shining, and when you slipped your hand into mine, it felt quiet and natural, like my hand had been waiting for yours. Months later, we carried boxes into our first flat. The rooms were small, the paint was uneven, and the floor squeaked loudly between the kitchen and the bedroom. We learned exactly where to step when one of us was sleeping. We ate dinner on the floor before we owned a table. We burned toast, lost the spare key, and danced in socks while the kettle boiled. Every ordinary day felt brighter because it was ours. Now it has been one year—one year of laughing at the same bad jokes, sharing rainy mornings, and saying “I love you” in a hundred little ways. I still think about that orange rolling into the puddle and how close I came to missing the best person I know. Ada, if our first year began with rain and a late bus, imagine where all the roads ahead might take us. Wherever they go, I hope we walk them together—hand in hand, laughing, always finding our way home.