I love waking up next to you — morning breath and all. A past flame told me that to love someone is hard work. Loving is easy, commitment is not. My younger self dismissed it as something old people say which de-romanticizes my view of what love is. I understand now. And I also understand why my past flame and I never ended up together.

I love telling you about the songs that I like. Even the songs that I don’t like. I love sharing with you how someone could write a happy sounding song that was inspired by a real life crime. And I love how your eyes widen, how your brows furrow as you blurt out, “Sick fuck!”.

I love watching you drive. Your mind fully concentrated on the road ahead, making sure that both of us are safe. And even though driving takes a toll on your stress levels, you still manage to reach out for my hand and hold it for as long as the Manila traffic, motorists, and pedestrians let you.

I love telling you about the books that I’ve read even though most of the time you can’t relate. Your knowledge, and perhaps interest on the subject, could be summarized by your 3-second chuckle.

I love how you immediately reaches for the lavender room spray when I tell you I couldn’t sleep. How you automatically grab the soothing oil and roll it gently over my temples so I can relax and get over my migraines.

I can go on and on. I can list the smallest of things that make me love you and yet, summing them up doesn’t fully quantify and justify what and how I truly feel. They cannot even fully answer the ‘why’.