Dear [HER NAME],
I've started this letter about six times, which is probably the most honest thing I can tell you. There's a lot I want to say and no clean way to say it, so I'm just going to write it badly and mean it completely.
You've changed the texture of my ordinary days. Before you, a Tuesday was just a Tuesday. Now it's a Tuesday I get to tell you about. That's the part nobody warns you about — how love mostly shows up in the small, unremarkable hours.
Thank you for your patience with me, for the way you listen, for staying through the versions of me that weren't easy to love. Thank you for the laughing, the arguing, the ridiculous voice notes, the silence that never felt awkward.
My favourite memory of us isn't the big one you'd expect. It's a small one — and you probably don't even remember it. That's how I know it's real.
You've taught me that being loved well isn't loud. It's consistent. It's someone asking if you've eaten. It's someone who stays.
I don't know exactly what the next few years look like, but every version I imagine has you in it. I want the trips and the milestones, sure — but mostly I want the boring evenings. I want to be the person you tell things to for a very long time.
I love you. Not the casual kind. The kind that shows up.
Love,
Sanket ❤️