He says,
“I’ve got something for you.”
And I’m in bed, folded into myself.
Curtains half drawn.
Heart half open.
Carrying the kind of day that settles on your chest without warning, without permission.
Just heavy.
Then the door opens.
And there he is.
Lilies in his hand.
My favorite.
Of course he knows.
There’s something about the way he walks in. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just, gentle. Like he sensed the fragility in the room before he even stepped into it. Like he understood that today I wasn’t strong, I was soft in the wrong ways.
And that hug.
God.
The kind of hug that doesn’t try to fix you.
Doesn’t ask you to explain yourself.
Just says, quietly,
I see you. I’m here.
And just like that, the gloom loosens.
The sadness doesn’t disappear, but it softens.
The air shifts.
The room feels lighter without a single switch being touched.
Tell me,
how am I supposed to tell my heart to slow down
when he feels like gravity
and I am already leaning?
His touch lingers, but it never cages.
His closeness never suffocates.
He doesn’t consume the space.
He steadies it.
There’s no performance in him.
No trying to be everything.
He just is.
And somehow, that simplicity feels dangerous.
Because it feels like home.
Not fireworks.
Not chaos.
Not the kind of love that leaves fingerprints in the shape of bruises.
Just warmth.
Just ease.
Just a man standing in a doorway with lilies in his hand, reminding me that love doesn’t always arrive as a storm.
Sometimes it arrives softly.
And stays long enough
for the dark
to forget your name.
She Was Sea 