Their love blossomed slowly but fiercely. Klaus discovered the joy of quiet mornings with Tulip's poetry
scattered around, the thrill of simple dates in crowded diners, the comfort of her shoulder when his nights
grew dark.
Tulip saw in Klaus a vulnerability few ever noticed beneath his confident exterior — a longing to be seen,
to be understood. They celebrated small victories together — a passed exam, a day without worry, a poem read aloud
under the fading sun.
But the pressures outside their bubble mounted. Klaus's job was barely enough, and Tulip's demanding
studies left her exhausted and sometimes distant.
Arguments flared — frustrations born not from a lack of love, but from fear and exhaustion. Yet, through it
all, their bond held, growing deeper with every tear and apology.
One chilly night, wrapped in a shared blanket, Klaus whispered, "I love you, Tulip."
She looked into his eyes, her own shining. "I love you too, Klaus. More than I thought possible."