i'd be gentle for you

little acts of tenderness that mean the world

“i would die for you.” “i would kill for you.” well, fine, but i would cook dinner for you when you come home, tired, after a long day at work.

i’d write you letters when we're apart. i’d make your coffee exactly the way you like it (oat milk, sprinkle of cinnamon). i’d remember little details you’ve told me, store them for use at a later time: i’d buy you a copy of your favourite childhood book that you've wanted to reread for years, after you mention it in passing.

i’d make a playlist for you, fill it with songs that remind me of you, of us. we’d listen to it on long drives. i'd kiss you on the forehead like your father used to do before he passed. i'd dry your tears with my thumbs and hug you tight until you feel a little better.

i'd talk about you behind your back — not meanly, but fondly — everyone i know will inevitably know i love you. i would be proud of you for getting out of bed when even the smallest tasks feel like climbing everest. and i would watch you sing as you bake in the kitchen, smears of flour on your face. i'd go grocery shopping with you and bicker over which kind of cheese to buy.

i'd send you messages like “text me when you get there safely”. i’d stay on the phone with you all night if that's what you needed. i’d come and find you at 7pm on a wednesday evening to make sure you were safe. i'd learn the way you need to be loved, become fluent in your love language.

because to be loved is to be known. to love is to make lots of little sacrifices. i’d pick you up from the airport even though i have assignments to complete, and you'd visit me when i’m sick even though you're afraid of germs. to love means to not always prioritise our own comfort; “you don't owe anyone anything” is a rubbish saying.

anyway, i'd be kind for you. i'd be gentle for you. so that you never have to know again what it is to be unloved.