How He Loves Me

When he scrolls through social media, he never ever likes a picture of another girl, unless we're both friends with that girl.

That may seem small to some, but in today's day and age, that alone is akin to a proposal. At least, I like to think it is. Not double tapping on someone's bikini pictures pales in comparison to the way he posts me on social media. No pushing or prodding necessary, he just lets me know he's about to post 3 pictures in a row that all feature me (and my mom).

And when I gush and squeal about never having to ask him to do so, he smiles and replies, "I love showing you off."

He loves me in a million other ways too.

When I'm having a bad day and just want to be alone for the night, he shows up anyway to bring the Ikea boxes up to my fifth-floor walk-up. He steals a couple kisses and goes on his way. He has no idea how much it means to me.

When he meets me on the corner every single morning to walk to the gym together, his face lights up in the early morning light and the most beautiful smile plays on his curly lips. He has no idea that walking a couple blocks together brings me a warmth I never knew before him.

When he finally winds down after a high-stress day, and his head plops onto my chest, I can feel the day's chaos melting off of him. He is silent, but no words are needed. He has no idea that tears are welling up in my eyes, all because it feels incredible to be needed as a safe space.

When we're in the car with his friends, he texts me to tell me he thinks we should go to my favorite Persian restaurant for our 6 month anniversary, next week. He smiles at me in the rearview mirror as I warm from the inside. He has no idea how special it makes me feel.

When he leaves the happy hour he's been roped into by his colleagues, he calls me from the back of the taxi. His eyes droop from exhaustion and his voice is hoarse from the networking, but he giggles on the phone about the conversations he had and the gin & tonic he sipped all night. He has no idea how seen and included it makes me feel.

When the day's difficulties finally end at 6 p.m. and all he wants to do is curl up in bed, he agrees to walk to the ice cream shop with me. He doesn't want ice cream, nor a walk in the sticky August heat, but he caves to my pleading and holds my hand the whole way there. He has no idea how he comforts my inner child.

He also holds my hand when we cross the street, he refuses to let me carry a single thing, and he pays for my train ticket home to see his parents. He puts band-aids on my knees and flicks my hand away when I fidget with my ear. He kisses my forehead and runs his hands through my tangled hair until I am fast asleep on his strong chest.

In the past years, I've learned that his love language is acts of service. He does for me more than he does for himself, and he has more patience in his pinky than I could ever hope to have. His selflessness knows no bounds, and his heart has so much room that I can stretch my arms out wide and still not fill up the whole space.

He is giving and kind and golden.

And he loves me in a million perfect ways.