I love you for the little things,
the quiet kindness you never announce.
For the details you think will slip past me unnoticed,
but never do.
Like the pomelo sleeping in the refrigerator,
round and patient,
waiting longer than it should have.
You asked why I hadn’t eaten it.
I shrugged, smiled,
"too lazy", I said,
didn’t even know how to peel it.
You rolled your eyes, a familiar gesture,
and I laughed, thinking that was the end of it.
But love, I learned,
doesn’t end at laughter.
The next night, after dinner,
you placed a container in my hands.
No ceremony. No words.
Just citrus segments,
neatly freed from their thick skin,
ready for me.
In that moment,
I tasted more than fruit.
I tasted being seen.
Being remembered.
Being cared for
in the softest way possible.
This is how you love,
not loudly, not for applause,
but by peeling the world for me
when I’m too tired to try.
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 12:53 AM UTC
I love you for the little things,
the quiet kindness you never announce.
For the details you think will slip past me unnoticed,
but never do.
Like the pomelo sleeping in the refrigerator,
round and patient,
waiting longer than it should have.
You asked why I hadn’t eaten it.
I shrugged, smiled,
"too lazy", I said,
didn’t even know how to peel it.
You rolled your eyes, a familiar gesture,
and I laughed, thinking that was the end of it.
But love, I learned,
doesn’t end at laughter.
The next night, after dinner,
you placed a container in my hands.
No ceremony. No words.
Just citrus segments,
neatly freed from their thick skin,
ready for me.
In that moment,
I tasted more than fruit.
I tasted being seen.
Being remembered.
Being cared for
in the softest way possible.
This is how you love,
not loudly, not for applause,
but by peeling the world for me
when I’m too tired to try.
