The Way You Stay

The way your eyes find mine

even in the middle of noise—

it’s a quiet I never knew I craved.

We don’t talk about the clock anymore,

not like we used to

when time meant distance

and longing meant waiting.

You lean in like light

trying to trace the edges of my tiredness.

And I don’t flinch.

I let you.

Because there’s something about

the way your hand stays near mine

without needing to hold it—

like presence,

not possession,

is what love actually means.

Sometimes I forget how I got here—

to this place where I don’t feel

like I’m too much or not enough.

But then you breathe,

and I remember.

—

And maybe I thought love

would arrive dressed as fire,

but it came as you,

holding your breath with me

through all my storms.

You said,

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And I’ve heard that before.

But you didn’t say it loud.

You said it soft,

and real,

like you’d already unpacked

your heart in mine.

And that’s when everything shifted—

not dramatic,

but like dawn—

quietly bold.

It’s not just that you love me.

It’s how.

Without a script,

without a need to prove.

You just do.

You just are.

And I finally am, too.