I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with Ryan. It wasn’t some grand realization, not a sudden spark or a dramatic confession. It was something quieter—something that crept in slowly, in the spaces between conversations, in the warmth of his presence, in the way his laughter lingered in the air.
We met at a friend’s game night. I wasn’t supposed to be there—I had almost canceled last minute, exhausted from work. But I went anyway, and there he was, sitting across the table, laughing at a joke I hadn’t heard. It was the kind of laugh that made everyone else smile, the kind that felt effortless and real.
At first, we were just acquaintances, then friends. We talked in passing, sent the occasional text, but nothing more. Until one night, when I found myself alone at a café after a long day, and he just happened to walk in.
“You look like you need a distraction,” he said, sitting across from me without waiting for an invitation.
I smirked. “And you think you’re the right person for the job?”
“Absolutely.”
And somehow, he was right. That night, we talked for hours. About our favorite books, the music that made us feel something, the places we wanted to see. He made me laugh in a way I hadn’t in a long time.
After that, we kept finding excuses to see each other—movie nights that turned into deep conversations, long drives with no destination, coffee runs that lasted far too long.
One evening, as we sat on my couch, the city lights flickering through the window, he looked at me differently.
“You know,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “I think I’ve been falling for you since the first time you rolled your eyes at me.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “And I think I’ve been falling for you since the first time I heard you laugh.”
Maybe love doesn’t always arrive loudly. Maybe sometimes, it sneaks in through the little things—the familiar sound of someone’s voice, the way they make you feel lighter, the comfort of simply being around them.
And maybe, just maybe, love sounds a lot like his laugh.
