The day I realized I loved him wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was a quiet moment — the kind you don’t see coming but never forget once it arrives.
We weren’t talking about love. We weren’t even trying to be romantic. He had just said something silly in a message, something only I would laugh at. And I did — not because it was the funniest thing in the world, but because it was him. Because his words, no matter how ordinary, always found a way to make me smile.
I remember staring at my screen, thinking, “Why does this feel different?” And then it hit me: it’s because I care. I care if he’s happy. I care if he’s sad. I care about every little thing he says and how he says it. I want to be there — not just in the good moments, but in the heavy ones too. I want to protect his light, even when it flickers.
It wasn’t the kind of love they write about in books — at least not at first. It was gentle. It was warm. It grew slowly, like a flower opening toward the sun. And that day, I realized I was already standing in full bloom.
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That was the day I realized I loved him — and nothing’s been the same since.
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