You’re a mouse.
Not the scurrying kind,
but the small, stubborn, soft-eyed kind
with one front tooth that could crack my whole heart open.
You hate when I say it,
but it’s true.
You fit in my arms like you were made to be protected.

I keep trying.
Trying to shield you from every pointless pain this world throws your way.
The cold stares.
The loud silences.
The bad bosses.
The days that lie and say you’re not enough.

Remember Hinge?
You were holding your face like you just woke up from surgery.
Tongue out.
Dazed.
I asked if you were on anaesthetic drugs.
You laughed.
That was it.
You told me your work was a mess,
and I said, let me be your escape.
You said yes.
We’ve been running together ever since.

You think I’m good.
Even when I can’t.
Even when I won’t.
Even when I sit in the dark,
angry at myself for being the man I’m not.
You still find the man I am
and tell him to stay.

We’ve fought.
Not movie fights.
Real ones.
The quiet kind that hurt more.
The words we wish we hadn’t said.
The hours we spent alone in the same room.
But somehow,
somehow,
we choose each other anyway.
Every single time.
Not because it’s easy.
Because it’s worth it.

Our friends say we live in our own world.
They’re right.
We do.
It’s a small world,
with stupid jokes and late-night rants,
and two people who forget how to stay mad
because they’d rather be laughing.

You’re a good woman.
Not “good” like polite or perfect,
but good like strong,
good like honest,
good like the kind of woman you want to walk into forever with,
barefoot, eyes open, teeth showing.

I love you.
Not as a promise,
but as a choice.
The one I keep making,
even on the hard days.
Especially on the hard days.

So come here, little mouse.
The world can wait.
We have our own.