His is the giving sort of love, and mine the taking sort. Match made in heaven? Not so fast.

I refuse to explore. The world finds him completely mundane and as ordinary a person as can be, like me. But no, he’s special, the most special thing in this universe. He always sits quietly, watching me retreat into myself, waiting for me to come out, to talk, to open up to him. He sits with his hands folded, like the patient man he is. He touches every square inch of my heart, without any physical contact, that’s the power of his feelings. The power of this love he has for me.

He knows I cry, with shame and without, many times over. After a good movie, after a bad one, in sickness and in health. He has watched my dark hair fall on my face as I look at him, into his eyes, which are browner than my favorite chocolate, my face contorted into the uniquest of expressions, only meant for him; brought out by him alone. He has watched the wars I fight with myself, he has seen me defeated. He hesitates to tell me stories I want to hear, yet he always knows how to make me laugh. Maybe he thinks I might find his tales boring. Or that annoying, nudging feeling, of not being good enough, or perhaps he thinks one day I’ll decide that I don’t love him anymore. But no, what he does not understand is this love, it is irrevocable. That time might change us, but these feelings won’t change. That I want to be as huge a part of his life as he’d let me be. That for once I want to make him feel wanted, like he always makes me.

I think it makes him nervous when I watch him. He diverts his gaze, raises his eyebrows, but he smiles and distracts himself from these feelings that are entirely his own. He asks me questions, this one. My answer is pretty much always the same:
‘I’m just thinking, about you. About us, about everything.’

Because truth is, I’m always tangled in his thoughts. Always.

 

Status: Hopeless romantic.

 

Fin.

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