It's those little hands of hers, hands that have been cut and scarred from picking up the fragments of her broken past. You could only wonder how hands so small could hold my whole world.
It's the subtle silence between us, the silence after she breaks down in front of you, and you're not sure whether to say something or nothing at all. You'll end up hugging her instead, letting the silence speak for itself. The warmth of your embrace would remind her what home felt like.
It's the countless fights we have, when shouting would turn to screaming until no more words could be said, the silence wrapping around our necks and lifting us off the ground. It's in our heated arguments where we see, even for a moment, how much we actually care for each other.
It's the butterflies she gives me, a different feeling from seeing your favorite singer up close, or when you reach the peak of a mountain and see the spectacular view from up above. It's the butterflies that keep me from saying anything, staring awkwardly at her until she laughs. It's the butterflies that keep me on my toes every time I see her; it's like meeting her for the first time.
Happy 8th, you know who you are