Language of Love

Just the thought of his name makes my heart flutter. He never buys me flowers. No grand declarations of love were ever made in crowded cafes. He isn't one for the dramatic. He leaves his mark in the most unexpected ways: a dog-eared page in my favorite book. The line about "my heart is with you. It's a tuneless instrument, though no one ever hears its sound," circled in his neat handwriting. It's in the constellation of freckles he drew on my arm last night.

He knows I adore his chai—his special blend with cinnamon and cardamom. The spicy aroma filling my little apartment. He'd bring me a steaming mug with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Waiting for me when I return from school. 

Stars connected by delicate lines.

Sometimes, I wonder if he knows how much these small things mean to me. How they speak volumes when words feel inadequate. Perhaps he does. Perhaps that's why he chooses this language of love. It's quiet and understated.

And perhaps, that's the beauty of it all. 

Some might call it insignificant. But to me, they stir my soul with a profound and eloquent message.

He doesn't need to shout his love from the rooftops. It's not a spectacle for the world to see. His love resides in the shared moments between us. And in those hushed corners, it blooms brighter than any bouquet.

I've found a love that beats in perfect time with my own heart.