Finding love on the mountaintop

Vera Myles

2:45 PM (0 minutes ago)

to me

When the trailhead finally came into view, the world rushed back—cars, voices, the soft tyranny of schedules. I felt the familiar pinch of endings, that reflex to armor up before something good could leave. But you turned to me, eyes bright, unguarded.

“Coffee?” you asked. Simple. Brave.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was better. It was the sense of choosing to keep walking together, even when the path flattened and the scenery changed. Coffee turned into dinners. Dinners turned into plans. Plans turned into a life that felt less like a series of climbs endured alone and more like a shared ascent—sometimes steep, sometimes gentle, always intentional.

Every so often, we return to that mountain. Not to recreate the moment—because it can’t be recreated—but to remember it. We sit on the same boulder, older now, a little wiser, still learning. The view is just as wide. The air just as thin. And every time, I’m reminded:

Love didn’t wait for me at the top.

It climbed with me.

Years passed the way seasons do on that mountain—quietly, decisively. We learned each other in layers. The easy parts came first: shared humor, favorite trails, the comfort of waking beside someone whose breathing you recognize before your eyes open. Then came the harder terrain.

There were days when the path vanished under fog. Arguments that felt like sudden storms, rolling in fast and loud. Losses that bent us low. Moments when one of us wanted to sit down on the trail and say, I can’t go any farther. On those days, we remembered what the mountain taught us: stop fighting the climb. Shorten your stride. Keep your eyes on the next safe step.

Sometimes I carried you. Sometimes you carried me. Sometimes we just leaned against the same rock and let the weather pass.

One autumn, years after that first meeting, we climbed the mountain again—older boots, slower pace, quieter confidence. Near the summit, the sky surprised us with snow, light and sudden, dusting everything in white. We laughed like children caught somewhere they shouldn’t be, our words turning to breath in the cold.

You took my hand and didn’t let go.

Up there, with the world stretched endlessly below us, I understood something that had taken a lifetime to learn: love isn’t the peak. It isn’t the breathtaking moment you tell the story about. Love is the decision to keep climbing together, even when the view is hidden, even when the air gets thin.

The mountain became a quiet witness to our life—something solid we could point to when words failed. That’s where it began, we’d say, and the meaning was always bigger than the place.

We built a home that felt like a trailhead: muddy boots by the door, windows open to weather, laughter echoing off walls we’d chosen together. Ordinary days became sacred without announcing themselves. Making soup while rain drummed the roof. Folding maps we no longer needed but couldn’t quite throw away. Falling asleep mid-conversation, hands still linked, as if letting go might tilt the world.We returned to the mountain slower than before. Not weaker—just aware. Every step measured, every breath noticed. Near the summit, you stopped, not from exhaustion, but from intention. The wind tugged at your jacket. The sky was wide and impossibly blue.

“This place,” you said, “reminds me to tell the truth.”

You turned to me then, eyes steady, heart open. You didn’t promise perfection or endless sunshine.