You are the stillness in a house that rarely stops moving, the low hum beneath the chaos, the calm shore. You never raise your voice to be heard, yet somehow, you are the loudest truth in every room.
There’s a brilliance in you—not the sharp flash of lightning, but the kind of light that seeps under doorways and fills corners no one thought to look in. People orbit you, not because you demand it, but because they know they’ll leave better, steadier, wiser.
You have held me in ways that had nothing to do with arms: in your listening, in your unflinching gaze when my edges felt too sharp for anyone else to hold. You’ve walked beside me through invisible storms, matching my steps without once asking how long the road would be.
Loving you has made me braver, softer, and, somehow, more me. It’s in the small moments—your eyes finding mine in a crowded room, the way you glance over when I laugh too loud, like you can’t quite believe you get to hear it.
You are the quiet gravity in my wild orbit, the steady hand on the wheel when the road curves sharply. You, with your brilliance that doesn’t clamor for attention but earns it effortlessly, have become both my home and my horizon.
In a world that often feels too loud, too fast, too sharp-edged, you are peace—a song only I can hear. You’ve taught me the quiet power of patience, the courage of putting one foot in front of the other, and the grace of staying when the world pulls us in every direction.
You are not just the man I love—you are the man who has taught me how to love,
how to soften,
how to trust in something bigger than fleeting moments.
