I didn't know when I started to love her.
Was it when I looked into her eyes? Was it when I watched her fall asleep? Was it whenever a smile rose into her lips? Or was it whenever she talks passionately about the things she loves?
There is just this unfamiliar warmth that I often only found in her.
Is it the thing they call affection? Is it fondness?
I don't know.
But there is a thing I am certain about; if I was asked what home is, my answer would be her.
7/20/2022
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Letters And Prose
RandomA series of fiction, mostly written in letters, some are free in any form. Written in the English language. Credits to the rightful owner of the photo used above.
