You meet him at the florist down your street. Then at a house party. And then you bump into him in the park where you two are the only ones walking in the sweet-tasting rain.
He is charming. He is intelligent. And he knows how to impress a woman. He can hold a conversation without making it all about him. He can woo you with his knowledge about the world you don’t know of. He can make you crumble with his smile.
He still comes to the park every time it drizzles, with the hope to see your glistening face. He watches the rain kiss your virgin skin before he can. Wet locks cling to your neck and he doesn’t move them. Your conversations go on for hours. You never have a closure to your meetings. It’s always a see-you-later, never a goodbye. His smile is so warm that it touches your heart and cuddles it. His voice so deep that you leap into it and glide by the syllables. He isn’t the most handsome and the most successful man around. He isn’t too tall or too dark.
But he is just… perfect, for you.
You both love Van Morrison and Frank Sinatra. Rom-coms make you cringe and he loves that unconventionality. Tarantino’s movies leave you squealing and holding on to his muscle-y arm (like a real girl), and that’s when he high-fives himself. He leaves little love notes on the bathroom mirror and on the car door to remind you of his love for you. Your Sunday afternoons are conversation-less, with nothing but the crisp crinkle of the pages of both your books. Your bed is a place only to make love and sleep.
He is not your soulmate, but a mirror of your own self. One that’s continuously growing in his own way, just like you, and holding your hand while doing so.
He can’t grow without you. He is your miracle.