"The Silent Promise"
He never said, "I love you" in words. Not once.
Instead, he spoke in the quiet ways only she could understand. When rain poured down, he’d show up, wordlessly slipping his umbrella over her head, walking beside her drenched. When she fell sick, he'd sit by her bedside all night, humming the tune she once mentioned was her mother’s lullaby.
He remembered the small things—the way she took her tea, the book she left unfinished, the childhood dream she never spoke of twice. He carved her name into the wet sand, knowing the ocean would take it but never erase it from him.
One day, she asked, “Why don’t you ever say it?”
He smiled, taking her hand, tracing circles into her palm like he always did when he was lost in thought. “Because love isn’t a word,” he murmured. “It’s everything I do when you’re not looking.”
And in that moment, she realized—he had been saying it all along.
The real love is in the action nit the words.
He never said, "I love you" in words. Not once.
Instead, he spoke in the quiet ways only she could understand. When rain poured down, he’d show up, wordlessly slipping his umbrella over her head, walking beside her drenched. When she fell sick, he'd sit by her bedside all night, humming the tune she once mentioned was her mother’s lullaby.
He remembered the small things—the way she took her tea, the book she left unfinished, the childhood dream she never spoke of twice. He carved her name into the wet sand, knowing the ocean would take it but never erase it from him.
One day, she asked, “Why don’t you ever say it?”
He smiled, taking her hand, tracing circles into her palm like he always did when he was lost in thought. “Because love isn’t a word,” he murmured. “It’s everything I do when you’re not looking.”
And in that moment, she realized—he had been saying it all along.
The real love is in the action nit the words.
"The Silent Promise"
He never said, "I love you" in words. Not once.
Instead, he spoke in the quiet ways only she could understand. When rain poured down, he’d show up, wordlessly slipping his umbrella over her head, walking beside her drenched. When she fell sick, he'd sit by her bedside all night, humming the tune she once mentioned was her mother’s lullaby.
He remembered the small things—the way she took her tea, the book she left unfinished, the childhood dream she never spoke of twice. He carved her name into the wet sand, knowing the ocean would take it but never erase it from him.
One day, she asked, “Why don’t you ever say it?”
He smiled, taking her hand, tracing circles into her palm like he always did when he was lost in thought. “Because love isn’t a word,” he murmured. “It’s everything I do when you’re not looking.”
And in that moment, she realized—he had been saying it all along.
The real love is in the action nit the words.
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