I love how the boy I love loves me back. I love how he makes day trips to far corner of the island so I smile and annoy him throughout the journey. Or vice versa. Once in a while, we sit in a restaurant eating pizzas with pineapple and so much mozzarella. As the sun paints skies in bright magentas, some Sundays we sit by the beach and admire how sea kisses the pebbled shore a two thousand times. Sea, she’s beautiful. Every Tuesday, we go to our favorite little bakery after work and eat cake as soft as his soul. His beautiful soul that tells me stories about his days of gray. His kind wounded soul no one could ever love. The soul of his he wanted to throw away. That he tried quitting. Once. Twice. The scars. The blemishes hidden. I love how I love every scar of his that no one could ever love. He, he, the beautiful human.
He calls me angel. I’m no angel. But to him, I am. We sit and joke about the sponge cake on the shelves. Funny thing, they named the cake Angel. Drink tea with milk and eat choco creame doughnuts. One day I went to his parents. We sat in his room and did our office work. Ate rice with fishy curry and spinach his mom made and drank coffee twice. Cuddled in his soft duvets and dreamed of having our own little house. With a kitten and pooch and a few cacti on the shelves.
I love how he took me to shop tees in comfy cottons and luminous oranges. Not that I needed to. But he needed to put up a smile on my face. I love how he ran down from his work to see me the day I lost my job. Gave me ten pecks on my forehead and held me tighter. Some days when I want to throw everything away because cereal in the marketplace reminds me I’m broke, he holds me a little tighter. When I see a girl only 2 years younger to me with her parents who shopped for her things that’s worth my monthly income and took her to the hostel in their fancy car, I cry a little. Days like those when I lose every little hope I hold onto, I love how he holds me and reminds me that I’ve things more beautiful.
Once we hiked a rock mountain and when I got breathless, he gave me his hand and fed me water, kept me hydrated until I was the same sushi roll he always loved. Some mornings, he wakes me up with little kisses on my forehead. Tells me stories about his happy days. The days he met me. The days he played cricket. How he felt something so beautiful when he touched my hands. First.
I love his eyes. The eyes that always have million little things to tell. He made me twenty some mini cards for my birthday with a cat on each card we called Guppy. More often, we go hunting down new places, breezy beautiful beaches and wetlands with so much trees. Eat macaroni from roadside shops and berry cakes from fancy hotels. We sit in a sofa and watch cricket together with two cups of chai to sip on.
We both struggle sometimes to carry our professional lives. Offices and unis with too much work that we forget to breath. But I love how it’s never been a problem for us. I love how we snap photos of cat gangs down the streets. I love how we explore places so pretty every week or month that it makes us smile.
I see a life with him. A sweet beautiful one.