Promise you’ll keep tracing circles on my palm when we’re both tired.

Say you’ll stand up for me at family dinners even when I turn red.

Say you’ll still shout my name across the street when you spot me.

I want you to promise you’ll wear my old scarf when yours disappears.

Promise you’ll still check the backseat for me when we leave the bar.

Say you’ll keep tucking your notes into my bag when I’m not looking.

Promise we’ll keep getting lost on drives just to find someplace new together.

Promise you’ll hold my umbrella the wrong way on purpose when it’s windy.

I want you to promise you won’t let our playlists get boring.

Promise you’ll take my side when my mum brings up that old story.

Promise me you’ll patch my jacket when the zipper breaks, not toss it.

Keep saying you’ll pick the weird movie I secretly like when it’s your turn.

Say you’ll come back to the apartment even when plans look easier elsewhere.

I will choose us when decisions are tight and say so out loud.

I promise to keep a calendar invite for us, and actually open it.

I will tell you my plan for the weekend before I make other arrangements.

I’ll rotate the laundry schedule so the chore never piles up on you.

I promise to bring you soup and chopsticks when you’re sick, no questions asked.

I will take your dog when you’re away without turning it into a burden.

I will admit when I’m wrong and say I’m sorry without adding excuses.

I will learn to cook your grandmother’s stew and make it on hard days.

I will remember your mother’s birthday and make the call even if it’s awkward.

I will water the plant you’ve been saving when you forget for a week.

I promise to tell you when I’m angry rather than shutting down.

I will be honest when I’m unsure and ask for help instead of pretending.

I will show up for parent evenings even if I dread small talk.

I’ll call you first on rough mornings and sit through the silence with you.

I keep replaying your whispered question from the sofa and it makes me restless.

Your laugh stuck in my ear is a slow burn I can't shake off.

I want the low, deliberate way you say my nickname when no one's near.

Your scent on the pillow is a low, persistent wanting I didn't invite.

My day narrows down to the moment I can lean into you again.

The memory of your scarf left on my chair has become my current obsession.

I keep imagining your laugh right behind me and it tightens everything.

My mind keeps going back to the scratch on your knuckle from last week.

That chipped mug you use is the image I scroll to between meetings.

I promise to feed your procrastination with harmless dares and gentle coercion.

I vow to rearrange the cushions so you have to negotiate for your throne.

I’ll always be the person to suggest dessert first and consequences second.

I promise to schedule our weekday ritual: one bad joke, one better kiss.