There are many things I like about you. Small things, really. The sound of your name when I say it out loud. The way your presence stays with me even after you’ve gone.
The quiet habits, the silly ones, the ones you probably don’t notice because they feel ordinary to you.
I like how joy shows up in your face before it reaches your laugh. I like that you take your time with comfort, stretching it out as if the world can wait.
I like that you’ve pulled me into moments I would have avoided on my own, moments that felt a little reckless and very alive.
But liking isn’t the point.
What I love is the way you love me. Not carefully measured, not half-hearted, not performative but it arrives fully, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always honest. It knows when to rush and when to linger. It shows up with both courage and tenderness, without asking for permission.
I could catalogue a thousand details, but they all collapse into one truth that your love makes room for me to be entirely myself. And that, more than anything else, is why it feels like home with you.
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