Cato smiled and pulled Clove closer. He still loved her, her laughing lines, aging spots, and stretching marks in all. But then again, he always loved her.
The two had grown old together, and perhaps fallen even more in love, if possible.
Everyday they had this routine, there was this bench in the park that the two would walk to hand in hand, telling stories.
Once they sat down on the bench though, Cato would pull her closer, as he did today. Right across the park was a house, and the two would stare at it for hours. Watching the birds fly by and the bugs go unharmed.
The house was a bakery. Every time before they left, Cato would stand up, go into the bakery and get a dozen chocolate chip cookies, handing them to Clove, whispering a shakily ‘I love you’ into her ear.
Cato always thought things would be the same forever, until they weren’t. But even when it was only him, when his love had died, he would still come to the bakery, buy a box of chocolate chip cookies, set them by her gravestone, whispering ‘I love you’ before he would walk away.
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