"A volcanologist," I said. "Or a mermaid."
Kazumi and I have a rule: No packed itineraries. The moment you over-plan a "perfect day," you strangle it. At 10:00 PM the previous evening, we made a loose pact. "Tomorrow," Kazumi said, stretching out on the couch, "we chase the light."
Most people would call this a disaster. With Kazumi, it became an adventure.
We ate on the floor. No plates, just bowls. We used our hands.
Kazumi rolled over and smiled—that slow, unfiltered smile that doesn't care about morning breath or messy hair. We stayed in bed for forty-five minutes just talking. Not about bills or work. About dreams.
A stray cat walked by. We spent ten minutes trying to befriend it. A truck carrying flowers spilled a few stems on the curb; Kazumi picked one up and tucked it behind my ear. The breakfast got cold. We didn't care. We drove thirty minutes to a lake I'd never heard of. Kazumi had spotted it on a map the week before and marked it with a red heart emoji.
For me, that person is Kazumi.
