Love, despite her infinite orbit of moments, never forgot the ones left behind—not really. She just waited for the quiet, for the hush after the chaos, when the noise settled enough for truth to speak. That was when she gleaned the gold tucked in the corners of afterthought. She was the kind to double back. To return to the thing said offhandedly, the almost-forgotten glance, the half-meant goodbye. Not because she was indecisive, but because Love knew that sometimes, meaning lingers after the moment’s passed. When everyone else moved on, Love lingered in the stillness. She’d sit with your regrets like they were tea leaves—steeping, not spoiling. She didn’t flinch at “I should have said,” or “I wish I hadn’t.” No, she held space for them, sifted through them, gleaned what mattered. Because Love understood that afterthoughts were just truths that didn’t get the floor the first time around. She didn’t chase closure. She walked with it, slow and open-palmed. Not to force it, but to witness it when it finally arrived—on the wind, or in a late-night whisper to no one in particular. And when it did? Love didn’t say, “See, I told you so.” She just smiled like she’d known all along and let you believe you found it yourself. Because in this chapter of her life, Love wasn’t loud, wasn’t grand—she was gentle, retrospective, and real. She was the soft voice that said, “Even what came too late is still worth hearing.” And she knew: afterthoughts, too, could be beginnings.