It’s the little things. Always the little things. It’s in the way he listens with a smile when you go grumbling about a bad day. It’s the way he holds your fingers and pulls them gently when he notices them twitching. It’s in the way he offers to give you a massage when you’ve been bent over your laptop, writing for six hours straight and he can observe you trying out different stretching positions.
It’s always the little things. Like how he never raises his voice, even in a heated argument. You yell, rave and rant but his tone is always calm and persuasive. It’s in the little love notes he leaves in your purse or connives with your colleagues to drop in your drawer at work. It’s in the way he indulges all your eccentricities without complaint. You’re a handful. Everybody knows that. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
He remembers to ask about your mother’s trip. He reminds you to return your dad’s call after you’ve lost yourself in work for one straight week. He remembers to send money to your little brother after you have made and forgotten one million mental notes to do that. It’s amazing really.
His little drops of love will form a perfectly massive ocean for some lucky girl to drown in. But that girl is not you. That girl is certainly not some serial heartbreaker who has an impeccable track record of ruining every good thing that comes her way.