You. When I look at you, it's as though the night itself holds its breath. The stars, delicate and endless, scatter across the sky like tiny stitches of silver thread, and you stand beneath them, as if you were the one who embroidered them there.
It seeps into my heart—this feeling I can't name. Your smile, fragrant like the petals of a flower I can't quite place, blooms in my chest and makes my cheeks warm, my pulse unsteady. I turn away quickly, but it's too late. You've already seen it.
You smile wider, as if you know the secret I'm trying to keep.
"This is love," I whisper to myself when I'm alone, when the silence is thick enough to let my heart speak. "Oh, this is love."