purplerunawatcloud

"i fucking hate you."

For me, it has always been the smallest things, the ones the world dismisses as trivial, yet somehow, they hold everything.

It is in finding reasons to see me, in creating excuses just to hear my voice, in seeking glimpses of me as though they are enough to soften an entire day.

It is walking beside me, hand in hand, our steps falling into rhythm without thought, like something meant, not forced.

It is in his foolishness, the kind he wears lightly, only to draw a smile from me.

In the gentle way he tucks my hair back when my words tumble out in restless chaos, never silencing me, never dimming my excitement, never asking me to be less.

It is in the way he notices, the little things I hold dear, the quiet pieces of my world that matter to no one else, yet to him, they are sacred because they are mine.

It is in the way my tears become his ache, in how he gathers me into his arms and holds on until I am ready to let go.

In the patience with which he steadies my overthinking, reassuring me, again and again, without weariness.

It is in how he turns to me, not just in joy, but in the smallest inconveniences, as though I am both his refuge and his return.

In how, in loving me, I become his home.

And maybe, just maybe, it is in the quiet ways he chooses me, over and over, even if it means changing, growing, becoming softer because a life without me feels unimaginable to him.

A love that is not loud, yet deeply consuming. Not demanding, yet effortlessly constant.

So yes, for me, it has always been the little things.