nichozzy

When we think to answer that question, we must also consider some other factors. Does Happiness count if it was experienced whilst listening to your favourite song? Does Happiness count if it was a stranger's on the road, but you saw their sunlit smile and smiled anyways? Does Happiness count if it stems from revenge or jealousy? Does Happiness count in every form no matter what?

Does Happiness count when it's felt under a rainy sky, dancing with a lover?

Dancing with Nicholas felt like a dream (in which case, yes, Happiness would count), a dream you’d hate to wake up from. 

Since the beginning of your relationship till now, dancing with him has remained a constant in the equation of your love. You remembered the very first time you danced with him in a kitchen too small for the both of you, the radio crackling somewhere between stations while rain tapped gently against the windows.

Nicholas had laughed when you stepped on his foot, that warm, surprised laugh that always sounded as though joy had caught him off guard. He’d spun you anyway, careless and certain, like the world beyond those dim yellow lights did not exist.

Back then, you thought love announced itself loudly. You thought it would arrive with orchestras and lightning bolts and a certainty that would rival that of the man resting in the sky.

Love arrived quietly: in sock-sliding turns across worn floorboards, in fingers curling instinctively around yours, in the way Nicholas always seemed to know when to pull you closer before the song even slowed.

"Would you like to dance?" was a familiar lyric from his pretty mouth, said in that low, comforting tone of his that always had you weak at your knees.

Today was no different. Except for the fact that raindrops were falling from the heavens, a rather obstinate reminder that what goes from the earth, comes back to her eventually.

The day had been cruel in all the quiet ways that exhaustion often was.

Nothing catastrophic had happened—no screaming arguments, no shattered glass, no tragedies worthy of novels. Just an endless accumulation of smaller things. Missed calls, harsh words that lingered too long, a headache blooming stubbornly behind your eyes—the sort of day that hollowed you out slowly, until breathing felt like an obligation rather than instinct.

By evening, the rain had begun.

You sat curled beside the living room window with a book open in your lap, though you had not turned a page in nearly twenty minutes. The words blurred together meaninglessly as your eyes drifted shut every now and then, heavy with fatigue. Outside, the drizzle painted silver trails down the glass, soft and rhythmic enough to lull the entire world into sleep. The house smelled faintly of rainwater and old paper.

You barely heard the front door open. Then came the familiar sound of keys dropped into the ceramic bowl near the entrance, followed by footsteps crossing the floorboards.

Your name, spoken gently. Nicholas’ voice always carried warmth in it, even after long workdays. Especially after long workdays, when he knew that a lover's tranquil atmosphere could heal the bloodiest and the gravest of wounds.

You looked up slowly from your book. He had loosened his tie on the drive home, the collar of his shirt slightly damp from the weather outside. Rain clung to his coat in darkened patches, his curls messier than usual from the wind.

The moment your beloved's eyes landed on you, something in his expression softened. He took one step closer, then another, until he stood in front of where you sat tucked against the window.

“Hey ." He murmured quietly.

You attempted a smile, though it came out tired around the edges. “Hi.”

Nicholas studied you for a moment longer, gaze tracing the untouched book in your lap, the blanket tangled around your legs, the distant look still clouding your face. Without another word, he held out his hand.

“Would you like to dance?”

The question settled into the room like candlelight.

Normally, he would already be reaching for the record player by now, teasing you over song choices while pulling you into the kitchen. But this time, no music followed, no crackle of vinyl, no familiar melody drifting through the house.

"No music?" You frowned softly.

His mouth curved into that crooked, beautiful smile of his—the one that always felt a little conspiratorial, like he knew something wonderful you didn’t yet.

“Don’t need any.”

Before you could question him further, his fingers curled around yours, warm and steady, tugging you gently to your feet.

And then he led you outside.

The back door creaked open to cool evening air and the scent of wet earth. Rain drizzled lazily from the dark sky, soft enough not to sting, just enough to kiss your skin in scattered droplets. The backyard glimmered under the porchlight, grass jeweled with water, puddles reflecting fractured gold.

“Nicholas—” you started, laughing breathlessly as he pulled you down the porch steps.

“Hm?”

“It’s raining.”

“I noticed.”

Yet he kept going until you stood together in the middle of the yard, rain dampening your sleeves and hair alike.

For a while, the rain remained gentle—drifted around the two of you in a silver mist, clinging to Nicholas’ lashes and soaking slowly through the fabric of your sleeves. His hand stayed warm against your waist despite the cold, guiding you in lazy circles through the wet grass as though the entire backyard had transformed into a ballroom meant only for the two of you.

There was no music. Only the drizzle tapping against leaves. Only your uneven breathing slowly syncing with his. Only the quiet squelch of wet grass beneath your feet as he spun you lazily beneath the clouds.

Nicholas danced with you in the backyard as though sorrow could be washed away by rain alone (it could, if you let it). And somehow, in his arms, for a little while, it almost could.

 You rested your forehead briefly against his shoulder, laughing softly when he attempted an exaggerated spin that nearly sent both of you slipping sideways into a puddle.

“Oh my God,” you wheezed through your laughter. “You’re terrible at this.”

Nicholas gasped dramatically. “Terrible? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent dancer.”

“You almost killed us just now.” You laughed, your beloved never failed to coax that sound out from you.

“But did you die?”

You snorted, shaking your head as rainwater dripped from your hair. Nicholas grinned at the sound, visibly pleased with himself in the way he always was whenever he managed to pull laughter from you.

The porchlight cast everything in soft gold around him. Rain shimmered against his skin. His shirt clung damply to his shoulders now, curls flattened messily against his forehead.

Beautiful, you thought absently, hopelessly beautiful.

Then the sky cracked softly overhead. The drizzle thickened almost without warning. One moment it was gentle droplets brushing your skin; the next, rain came pouring down in earnest, sudden and heavy enough to soak through both of you within seconds.

“Nicho!” you shrieked, laughing as icy water splashed down your neck.

He burst into laughter too, tilting his face briefly toward the sky before grabbing your hand tighter.

“Run!”

You both bolted toward the house through the downpour, nearly slipping across the muddy grass in your haste. Nicholas kept laughing the entire way, loud and breathless and wonderfully unrestrained, while you stumbled beside him half-blind from rainwater.

By the time you reached the porch steps, both of you were drenched.

Nicholas yanked the back door open and ushered you inside first, the warmth of the house wrapping around you . Rainwater dripped onto the hardwood floors as you both stood there panting and soaked to the bone.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then you looked at him. His hair was dripping into his eyes. His clothes were ruined. There was mud splattered along the hem of his trousers and rainwater running down the bridge of his nose.

And he was smiling at you like you were the best thing he’d seen all day.

A helpless laugh escaped you.

Nicholas stepped closer, still catching his breath. “Feel any better?”

You looked down at your soaked clothes, the puddles gathering beneath your feet, the lingering ache in your chest now softened into something lighter.

“A little,” you admitted.

His smile was gentle. "Good.”

And somehow, standing there dripping rainwater onto the kitchen floor with Nicholas’ hand curled around yours, a little felt like everything.

Later, after dry clothes and tangled laughter and the soft domesticity of towels abandoned carelessly across the bathroom floor, the evening settled into quietness.

The storm outside continued unabashedly, rain thrumming against the roof and windows, but inside the bedroom everything felt warm and dim and safe. The bedside lamp cast amber light across rumpled blankets while the scent of rain lingered faintly in the air, softened now by clean cotton and Nicholas’ shampoo.

You lay curled against him beneath the covers, head resting over his chest as though it belonged there. Maybe it did.

Nicholas was warm in a way that reminded you of tea with honey. The sort of warmth that spread slowly through you until the sharpest parts of the day dissolved at the edges. Being held by him felt like that first sip after coming in from the cold—sweet, steady, healing in ways too quiet to explain properly.

His fingers drifted lazily up and down your back beneath the blanket, absentminded and affectionate. Every now and then, you felt the low rumble of his chest when he sighed contentedly.

Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away. Inside, Nicholas pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. You felt it more than heard it—the gentle press of lips against your hair, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“Tired?” he murmured.

“Mhm.”

Another slow stroke along your spine. “Better than earlier?”

You smiled against his shirt, eyes already heavy with sleep. “Much.”

His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your cheek. Calm, familiar, home. For a little while, neither of you spoke again. There was no need to. They made lovers from the same pieces of dying stars just so they neither needed voices nor words to communicate. One star piece twinkled at the other, and the earthlings called it science.

You knew it was only good old love.

The rain continued beyond the windows, the world carried on spinning with all its noise and complications, but here in the quiet dark, wrapped in Nicholas’ arms, everything softened into stillness.

And perhaps that was the answer to the question. Does Happiness count if it was in a dream?

Maybe Happiness did not need permanence to count.

A song ends. A stranger passes by. Rain dries. Dreams dissolve by morning, slipping through your hands no matter how tightly you try to hold them. Yet while they exist, they alter you. They leave behind warmth like sunlight on fabric, faint but undeniable.

No one would claim a sunset meant nothing simply because night followed it.

So yes—dream Happiness counted. Fleeting Happiness counted. Borrowed Happiness counted, the kind gathered from watching headlights smear gold across wet pavement at midnight. Or from hearing someone you love laugh in the next room and realizing, suddenly and without warning, that you are glad to be alive at the same time they are.

And Nicholas counted too.

Happiness with him rarely arrived in dramatic waves; instead, it settled quietly into the spaces between things. In rain-soaked dancing. In tired smiles across kitchen counters. In warm hands finding yours instinctively beneath blankets half past midnight.

Perhaps that was the truest kind of Happiness of all—the kind that did not demand to be remembered forever in order to matter. Happiness was never meant to be permanent. Nothing living ever is.

Flowers wilt. Songs fade into static. Even the brightest summers surrender eventually to autumn. Yet we do not call them meaningless because they end. We call them beautiful because they happened at all.

Nicholas taught you that joy could be gentle. That love could exist in soft repetitions. That even the smallest moments—a kiss against your temple, laughter spilling through a storm, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek—were enough to leave permanent marks upon a heart.

Maybe that was why Happiness counted, no matter how fleeting it seemed.

Because even after the music faded, you still remembered how it felt to dance.

And somewhere in the small jar of Happiness you carried within yourself, another second slipped softly into place.

fin.

A/N: can you tell the capitalised H was inspired by The god of small things. and the first sentence too? Please tell me you got the reference

divider by @dividers-are-us

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