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He does not speak in excess, does not scatter his soul through careless words. His silence carries weight, the kind only strong men know how to hold. There is stone in the way he stands— firm, unmoving, protective— as if the world itself leans on his shoulders and he never complains. But I have looked into his eyes. And I know better. I know that beneath the quiet strength lives a heart still warm, still raw, still brave enough to feel. A heart that has known restraint, that learned early how to endure instead of how to ask for softness. A heart that beats carefully, not because it is fragile, but because it is precious. His soul is beautiful in ways that do not announce themselves. It exists in small gestures— in the way he stays, in the way he listens without interrupting, in the way his presence alone can make a room feel safe. He loves not loudly, but deeply, like roots growing unseen, holding everything steady. The world sees his exterior and mistakes it for coldness. They call him stern, unreadable, distant— never realizing that stone is often formed by pressure, by time, by the need to survive. But I have seen the flowers within him. I have seen tenderness bloom in the quiet spaces between his words. I have felt kindness unfold in the way he looks at me— as if I am something worth protecting, worth being gentle for. And that is why I love him. Not in spite of his silence, but because of what it shelters. Because a man who carries flowers inside a heart of stone is a man who loves with truth, with loyalty, with a depth that does not fade. He may never say much, but his soul speaks to mine in ways language never could. And I would choose that— his quiet, his strength, his hidden softness— again and again, for a lifetime.

His face is not a portrait; it is a landscape. His eyes are twin embers of dragon fire, brown as ancient forests after rain, watchful, patient, alive. They do not shine for the sake of being seen— they glow the way guarded treasures do, from within. Eyes that have learned the weight of silence, that carry warmth without ever scorching the world. His nose rises like a proud ridge of stone, a mountain the wind could not wear down. It stands at the center of him as proof that beauty was never meant to be timid. It is the kind of feature time respects— the kind that remains when trends have long turned to dust. His lips are ripe fruit at the edge of summer, full, soft, offering sweetness without promise. They hold laughter like honey and stillness like prayer. They were shaped not for perfection, but for truth— and truth, when spoken gently, always lingers. His skin is night soil, dark and fertile, holding centuries of sun in its depth. It does not reflect light— it keeps it. Like the earth, it gives without asking, endures without complaint, and teaches the sky humility. His beard and moustache are ivy and shadow, growing where time decided to stay. They frame his face like old poetry frames meaning— not to hide it, but to deepen it. They speak of patience, of warmth, of a man who has learned how to be both shelter and storm. To call any part of him imperfect would be like calling the ocean unfinished or the moon incomplete. He was not carved for approval. He was formed for presence. And if mirrors ever fail him, if doubt ever whispers lies— I hope he remembers this: some faces are not meant to be admired at a glance. They are meant to be wandered, slowly, reverently, until love teaches the eyes how to see. And once seen— they are never forgotten.

You, the one who placed a sunrise where night once nested in me, who let warmth spill into the cold chambers I had bricked with silence— how could love not crown you sovereign of my sky? Before you, my heart was a planet with dimmed orbits, tired rotations, a universe uncertain if it still knew light. Then you arrived, quiet as morning footsteps, bold as the first beam that interrupts the horizon, and you opened suns in me— plural, glowing, unapologetic, alive. Not one star, not one lantern flame, but entire burning spheres of gold you lit inside ribs that once knew only survival. You taught light to stay without demanding applause, to exist not as spectacle, but sanctuary. When the world presses bruises into my days, when weight wraps around my voice again— your radiance hums under my pulses, a private galaxy only you know how to position, a constellation of warmth that does not scorch, only calls me back to living. If love were a sky, you are not merely the sun— you are the hand that invents dawn, the artisan of warmth, the keeper of light’s first secret. So I dedicate this to you— not for a season, not for a date on a calendar, but for every ordinary moment you make extraordinary just by existing in it. To the man who opened suns in me: May your heart always burn with the same softness you ignited in mine— bright, steady, eternal in the way only gentle things can be.

You are the sky my heart keeps painting — vast, infinite, unknowable, and mine to adore in small glimpses. You are planets strung together with quiet strength, stars burning not to be noticed but to light the darkness for others, galaxies swirling with stories I haven’t yet read, but long to memorize, star by star. If you are the universe for a little while, then I am the stardust that recognized you first — because how could I not gravitate toward a cosmos that holds gentleness in its abyss and love in the curvature of its horizon? Your presence does not roar like thunder, yet even silence trembles at your depth. There is gravity in your voice — a pull I surrender to willingly, there is sunrise hidden in your laughter, there is home written in the steady orbit of the way you stay. You are made of chaos older than time, yet you hold me with a calm younger than the dawn. You are the paradox of everything wild and everything soft, a universe that could collapse into black holes at any moment, but instead, blooms into constellations when you look at me. And your eyes — oh, your eyes are not just stars, they are entire skies that refuse to dim when they see me — even when I am a half-forgotten moon, even when I am clouds carrying storms, even when I am night without its poetry. You look at me like the universe once looked at its first miracle — with wonder, with belief, with certainty — as if I was not formed by heartbreak, but curated carefully by fate so I could meet you and know what forever feels like in mortal moments. If love were astronomy, you would be the undiscovered phenomenon scientists whisper about, and if my heart were a telescope, it would spend lifetimes trying to translate your light — because you do not shine to be admired, you shine because brilliance is simply your nature. So tell me again — how could I not love you? When you are the universe daring to take the shape of a man, only for a short cosmic breath, and choosing to spend that breath loving me? The stars above us are proof that infinity exists, but you, my love — are proof that infinity can live and breathe beside me.

I thought I knew the shape of love, A distant story, half-remembered. I carried it like a sealed envelope, Addressed to a ghost, a future mystery. Then you laughed— And it was not a sound, but a key. You were the metaphor I had struggled to capture, The final, perfect line that had always been missing, And in that moment, I did not meet you, I recognized you. My soul whispered, "Oh, there you are." Thank you for loving me when I still tasted of heartache, when my silence was a fortress. You saw the ghost of the garden in the frost and chose to stay for the spring. In the sanctuary of your arms, I learned to unfold. Slowly, like a love note read in secret, Fingers trembling with the weight of its truth. Each fear, a crease you gently smoothed; Each hidden hope, a word you spoke aloud. You did not just hold me— You deciphered me. And where I was clenched tight against the world, I bloomed, a flower turning inside out toward its sun. For you have opened suns in my heart. You have placed galaxies in my palms, Transformed my empty hands into a cradle for sparkling stars. Loving you has not merely been a feeling, It has been a becoming. It has sanded my rough edges, Polished my spirit, Made me kinder, braver, better. It is the quiet, profound alchemy Henry James knew— That to love greatly is to be remade. And so, my love, if the unthinkable whisper ever comes, If I am one day dust and memory, My one regret will not be the silence, But the poems left unwritten. For who else would know the lexicon of my soul? Who would translate the constellations you painted behind my eyes? Who would write my poems to you? But until that distant, unimaginable silence, I am here. My hands are full of the stars you gave me, My heart is a sun you ignited, And my life is the endless poem I write for you, With every breath, every glance, every quiet morning at your side.

I will not take the pen to your sweet story, Nor mark a margin with a critic’s hand. You are not a first draft,full of worry, But a complete work I understand. You are the final,settled, perfect form, The quiet masterpiece for which I’ve yearned, A shelter from the intellectual storm, A lesson my soul has finally learned. I’ve read the other volumes, short and clever, Their prose was polished,but their hearts were thin. They could not hold me,nor could I hold them ever; They were a borrowed joy,a fleeting din. But you—your binding is both strong and tender, Your narrative is deep and wide and true, A sprawling epic,both defender And the fresh,thrilling world I journey through. Your opening chapter was a bold beginning, A promise of a tale I had to know. The rising action—my own heart is spinning— With every conflict,we began to grow. The plot twists were not obstacles to dread, But chances to emerge more intertwined, And every gentle word you left unsaid, Was a subtext I felt within my mind. I love the protagonist you’ve chosen to be, The hero’s journey written in your skin, The setting is your arms,encircling me, The universe I feel most at home in. I know your footnotes and your hidden themes, The quiet sorrows that your eyes can hold, The vibrant color of your wildest dreams, A narrative more precious than pure gold. So let us fill these pages, side by side, Let no editor touch this sacred text. In your sure plot,my restless soul abides, Perplexed no more,no longer vexed. You are my library,my entire shelf, My morning read,my midnight’s deep repose. I would not rewrite you to please myself, For in your perfect lines,my own heart grows. You are my most complete and greatest novel, A classic that the ages will not tire. And I am just the grateful, humble mortal, Who gets to read you by the fire.

In my quietest thoughts, you are there, the steady rhythm beneath the chaos, the echo that lingers when the world grows silent. I did not know that love could be this— not fireworks, not fleeting sparks— but a slow-burning flame that makes even the darkest nights glow with meaning. Every hardship I have endured now feels like a stepping stone, each wound a map that led me closer to you. The tears I once cursed, the loneliness I once feared— they were not punishments, but lessons written by destiny, so that when I found you, I would know how to cherish you. When I think of you, I no longer see the weight of the past. I see healing. I see the comfort of a hand I can hold without fear it will slip away. I see a home that is not built of walls, but of laughter, of quiet moments, of two hearts that choose each other even when the world turns cold. You are the softness I never thought I deserved, the calm to my restless spirit, the answer I had been asking of the stars. With you, every scar is forgiven by love, every night becomes gentler, and every dream carries your face within it. And so I return to you— in dreams, in thoughts, in every silent prayer. You are my meaning, my shelter, my forever place to belong.

He was like that warm autumn surrounding, peaceful but full of fallen leaves. And a little like that spring weather, beautiful and perfect for making happy memories.

Also, had a bit of those rainy symptoms, like he would groan as the thunder but as soon as everything gets heavy, he would breakdown, at some certain places, in front of some certain ones.

He was like that book I started to read and no matter how many dark chapters it would have, how many miserable facts it has, I'd still read it, I would still read it like an obsessed book lover, and that I would never want it to get over, everytime I turn a page, it would still have a lot to read. That everytime I take step ahead, I still would have a whole staircase to climb.

Oh! And the way his chocolate brown eyes used to shine in the presence of sunlight. Those eyes, which he always used to take for granted, were a piece of fine art. That big nose which he was always insecure about. Those soft cheeks which were not too chubby but still, I would pinch them everytime I got a chance.

I once heard from him that I was the first girl to trust him too much and that utterly made me wonder how no one before me saw what I see in him. How no one noticed the way he cared. How no one noticed that he would do anything for someone special. How he would not let you walk on the side of the road. How he would not let you starve even when you didn't had the epitite. How he would fight anybody to protect you. How he would not share some of his problems with you just so you don't stress about them.

But at the same time I was glad that nobody before me ever saw this in him. Cause if they did they would never let him go, and I would have never saw this sides of him. They would have kept him. Just like we treasure that rose given by our lover, in our secret diary. And the way we secure that first handwritten letter given by someone special. The way we would secure that four petel leaf, cause its hard find and too lucky have. That is how boys like him are,

Rare but Amulet .

He was like that favourite song of mine. I would want everyone to know about it. That how beautiful it's melodies are and how excellently it's written. But at the same time I never want it to be known by anyone. I never want anyone to have a fortune like me to have such a boy. I always want to keep him as my treasure.

There is a gentleness about him— a softness that does not come from fragility, but from a heart strong enough to remain kind even when the world has given it reasons not to be. It’s the gentleness of a man who has seen shadows yet still chooses to be the light. Of someone who can stand like an oak in a storm but still stop to admire the way a single petal falls onto the earth. He speaks, and the sharp edges of my day smooth themselves into calm. He listens, and I feel as though my soul has finally found a place to rest. His hands, capable of holding up the weight of his own world, still reach for me as though I am the most precious thing he could ever carry. When he laughs, it’s not just a sound— it’s sunlight spilling into every corner of me. When he looks at me, it’s not just a glance— it’s an unspoken promise that in his presence, I am safe, I am cherished, I am known. And maybe the world will never understand that his gentleness is not weakness, but a quiet, rare kind of power— the kind that does not need to roar to be heard, that does not need to prove itself because it simply is. I have seen him in moments of strength, in moments of silence, in moments where the only thing between us is the steady rhythm of our hearts— and I have learned that love, real love, is not always in grand gestures or wild passion. Sometimes it is in the way he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Sometimes it is in the way his voice wraps around my name like a prayer. Sometimes it is in the way he holds me as though even the stars would envy his embrace. Yes— there is a gentleness about him. And it is that gentleness that makes me believe in the kind of love that can outlast every storm.

He is, the kind of story I never knew I was waiting to read— not the fairytale prince on a polished white page, but the slow-burn novel the kind you don’t lend to anyone because the margins carry your heartbeat. He is, better than books— better than the scent of old pages, better than midnight chapters under lamplight, better than the comfort of words that once saved me. Because now, it’s him— his voice, not ink, that rewrites my silence. Where novels give me characters to dream of, he gives me mornings to wake up to. Where prose weaves illusions of perfect men, he makes imperfections look poetic. And when he laughs— God, when he laughs... I forget every love story I’ve ever read because none of them sounded like that. He doesn’t need to be tragic to be beautiful, or broken to be brave. He walks into rooms like he’s light spilling through stained glass— not demanding to be seen, but impossible to ignore. And when he looks at me, I swear, I feel like the plotline finally makes sense. He is the tenderness authors chase with trembling pens, the vulnerability they only dare to write in whispers. And the way he holds me— it’s not romance. It’s reverence. I’ve known characters who made my soul ache, pages that left my fingers trembling, but nothing—nothing— has ever made me feel more alive than his hand on mine, his name in my mouth, his quiet in my chaos. Fiction has its place. Books built me. But he? He unbuilt me— only to rewrite me softer, stronger, and more loved than I ever thought I could be. Fiction has nothing on him. Because he is real. And he is mine.

The world that he created for me. A realm stitched from stardust and sleepy smiles, where time slows when he speaks, and reality bends gently around his touch. He is the moonlight in my windowsill, the reason flowers lean toward dawn. With him, even silence hums like a lullaby. And in his gaze, I found galaxies that called me home. So yes— I'm in my own world. One created not with bricks or maps or locked doors, but with glances that softened the air, words that stitched stars into my silence, and hands that held me like I was made of moonlight. In this world, the rules are different. Time slows when he smiles, gravity forgets me when he laughs. The storms inside my mind hush themselves at the sound of his voice. Here, I am barefoot in a garden that only blooms when I’m happy. He planted each petal with patience — even the ones that bloomed from my sorrow. He never asked me to hide the shadows. He danced with them, naming each one beautiful until they stopped fearing the light. He built this world not for the girl I used to be, but for the woman I dared to become only because he believed I could. And oh, he makes the ordinary feel like folklore. Mornings taste like honey when he's near. My dreams carry his name in every echo. The stars seem to bend closer when he pulls me in. Even silence becomes a language between us, filled with unspoken tenderness. He doesn't rescue me from reality. He just makes it so beautiful, I never feel the need to escape. So yes— I’m in my own world. A world drawn in golden light, anchored in the warmth of his soul, and wrapped in the wonder of love that feels like coming home to a place I didn’t know I was missing until he built it for me.

  And how do I answer the question if someone ask me "what's your favourite celestial object?", when all I can think about is my lover's eyes. How could I ever revere the distant constellations when his gaze holds galaxies too fierce to be named? Each blink is a nova—exploding with secrets that seem meant only for my heart to unravel.

" Perfectly imperfect." A phrase that I never understood until he called me his goddess. When he replied "I'd rather watch her then a movie" when his classmates invited him to watch a movie. And when one of his friend texted him—"Stars always go ignored when you have the moon" and he replied with "She's sun, my friend. Stars can not be visible in her presence." Nither was I picture perfect nor as intelligent, yet everytime I caught a glimpse of myself in those eyes, I saw the most delightful and excellent incarnation of myself. Like I’m a wonder the world forgot to write about, like my existence is art in its rawest, rarest form.

If your dream reader found your book today, would they even know it exists?

And in that unwavering gaze, I learned to see it too. Learned to soften around the sharp edges of my self-doubt, learned to hold my own hand when I began to spiral. Because if he, with all his quiet fire and fearless love, could look at me like I was worth everything—then maybe I am.