I know what it is to be looked at by someone who sees me.
I have felt his eyes rest on me as though he had been searching for me long before we met.
I have heard my name in his mouth and wondered how a single word could become a prayer.
I have stood in the warmth of his affection and felt something ancient stir inside me, something older than fear, older than reason, older than all the ways we learn to protect ourselves from love.
There are people who pass through our lives.
And then there are those who arrive carrying a familiar ache, as though some forgotten part of us recognizes them before we do.
He is that for me.
A knowing, a remembering, a place my heart found before my mind could explain it.
I do not love him because he is perfect.
I love him because when he touches my hand, the world softens around the edges.
Because when he laughs, something in me rises to meet it.
Because when he looks at me, I feel cherished in a way words rarely capture.
When he says my name, I turn toward it as naturally as flowers turn toward the sun.
I have loved him in joy.
I have loved him in sadness.
I have loved him in absence.
I have loved him in silence.
Wherever this road leads, whatever becomes of us, I will always know this:
For one brief and beautiful moment in eternity, my soul recognized its counterpart and called it by name.
And if love leaves a mark upon the soul, then his name is written all over mine.
