Safe enough to breathe

I love that he’s tall, not just in height but in the way he makes space for my weight. The kind where I could rest my head against his chest and finally let the tears fall without explaining why. I love that he notices when my smile changes shape. That he knows the difference between my real laugh and the one I borrow for the world. I hate that I say I’m okay when I’m not. Not because I don’t trust him— but because I don’t want my storms to feel like a burden on his sunny days. I love how he smiles around me, like joy finds him easily when I’m near. Knowing I can make someone smile makes something soft bloom in my chest. I love that he makes time— real time— even when life pulls at him. Being chosen feels like warmth I didn’t know I was missing. But more than anything, I love his voice. The way it fills quiet rooms, pushes loneliness back, turns silence into company. I smile when I think of it. I blush. And for a moment, everything feels lighter. Loving him hasn’t been heavy. It hasn’t been painful. It’s been joy. It’s been ease. It’s been a place where I can almost breathe.