Always
A lot of people can love you better than I can do. I’m not even gonna lie on that one. They can easily notice all the little things you do. And I shit you not that they are way better at expressing their feelings for you. They know exactly when, why, and how they fell for you.
If you were to form a crowd of all the people who loves you, I will be there—but barely existing. My voice would be trampled by their victorious claims of how much they love you. But I’ll say this to you: I do love you, as well.
Maybe I can’t put it into more detailed paragraphs. Maybe I don’t always notice the little things you do. Maybe it’s because when it comes to you, all I can feel is a fucking bomb inside my chest, a big lump on my throat, a clean slate mind, a mouth that has forgotten how to function. I am a big-time mess because my goddamn brain always refuses to be of use when it comes to you.
God fucking dammit, I want to write about you. I want the whole world to know why I like you—it’s because you always make me feel a lot of things. Just like now. I am turning into a full-blown mess trying to find words that could fit you.
I want the whole damn world to know what I like about you. It’s you. You are beautiful in red. Your goddamn laugh that echoes in my head.
I want the whole damn world to know how and when I started to like you—
It’s when you put out a scissor when someone is about to shake your hand. It’s when you make tens of facial expressions because you don’t know what to do in a certain situation. It’s when you look the happiest because you are doing something that you loved the most.
It’s also how you look so vulnerable that you make me want to protect you. It’s also how you are far more mature than people your age. And it’s also how you always enjoy yourself like a baby whenever you are around with the people you felt closest to.
It’s how you take my goddamn breath away with that goddamn smile of yours.
God, I don’t even know anymore. I just—