To the mitten you lost last winter that I still keep in the drawer.

To the plain wish: I want to make you coffee tomorrow morning.

To the small bravery you show asking for help when you need it.

To feeling proud when people see us and we still hold hands.

To the cheap wristwatch you wear and won't replace; it suits you.

To the plain truth: I miss you the second you leave the room.

To your insistence on making playlists for road trips — I love them.

To the comfort I feel when you bring an umbrella for both of us.

To the small thrill when you call me by a nickname only you use.

To the scar on your knuckle that I trace when we're quiet.

To your voice reading receipts aloud in the car; it made me smile.

To the way you check the locks twice and then still kiss me goodbye.

To the single plant you keep alive on the windowsill; I notice.

To the steady pull I feel toward you every time we plan a weekend.

To your habit of leaving crumbs by the keys — small, known, ours.

To the grocery list you texted me and how I saved it.

To the way you fold laundry so precisely that it calms me.

To the coffee mug with the cracked handle you refuse to toss.

To your terrible karaoke of that one chorus — it made my night.

To the small rush I get when your name lights up my screen.

To the dent in your phone case that I keep meaning to fix.

To your burnt toast this morning — I loved that you laughed about it.

To the way I relax when you text 'on my way' and mean it.

To your stubborn habit of leaving one sock on the radiator — I still notice.

I feel proud telling my sister about the time you fixed the heater.

I promise to answer the door at midnight when you come home from work.

I will carry your heavy bag up stairs without making it a thing.

I feel a simple joy when your playlist starts and I know your mood.

I want to be the one who packs your lunch when mornings are rushed.

I notice your penmanship and the way you cross your t's; it feels familiar.

I like that you reheat coffee twice and still drink it, stubborn and human.

I want to learn to fix that squeaky door hinge you always ignore.

I notice the way you tighten your shoelaces and think about small rituals.

I want to sit with you in silence and have it be enough.

I love that your jacket smells faintly of rain even after weeks.

I feel grateful when you check my hand in a crowded room.

I like you when you're impatient and tapping your foot—it's honest.

I will pick the slower lane in traffic if it means we talk longer.

I notice the tiny scar on your knuckle and it makes me protective.

I want to wake up and make coffee for you even on Saturdays.