She hired a skywriter for my birthday. It said one word. Stay.
A plane above a rooftop dinner. One word in smoke. She watched his face crack open from across the table.
She planned the whole thing.
Rooftop dinner. My birthday.
String lights. My favorite meal.
A table for two above the city.
I said this is too much.
She said it's not enough.
We ate slowly.
She kept checking her phone under the table.
I asked if she was okay.
She said perfect. Just wait.
At 8:15 she said look up.
I tilted my head toward the sky.
A plane was writing something in white smoke.
One word.
It took shape slowly. Letter by letter.
S.
T.
A.
Y.
Stay.
I looked at her across the table. She was crying. Not sad. Just sure. The only word I needed to say back was yes.