I had never met him before I told him that I loved him, had never heard his voice, but I had imagined how he would sound whispering “I love you too.” I had imagined a slight tint of red spreading over his cheeks as he would try to stop himself from grinning like an idiot, and release the Microphone button on WhatsApp. I had imagined how he would nervously wait for the ticks on the voice note to turn blue. I had imagined, and fallen in love.
The reason I fell for him, was because he was there. He was there when I wanted to share a picture of my favourite dish, there when I needed someone to read the last piece of poetry that I had written, there when I wanted to share the stupidest joke I had ever heard, and there, when I was too sad to close my eyes at night. He was just there, like being beside me meant the world to him. It has been quite a few months since we confessed our love for each other, and we haven’t met yet, but I cannot recall a single moment when he wasn’t right there by my side.
I believe that being there for someone is underrated. Too many people forget to be there for the loved ones, and most of the times they don’t realize exactly how much of damage they are causing. He knows. He knows that in my most desperate moments, I don’t really care whom I am talking to as long as they are there. And he is scared that there might come a time when I’ll find no one who won’t mind listening to me, and that would destroy me. So, he never leaves my side.
Like I said, we have just spent a few months together, but I know that some thirty-seven years later, when I wake up on a particularly chilly morning, he would be right beside me, with two steaming cups of coffee on a tray between us. He would just be there, like being beside me means the world to him.