He was young when the world took too much from him. Too young to wear grief so gracefully, too beautiful for sorrow to cling to without protest. People noticed him wherever he went—not just for the elegance of his face or the way violet light seemed to follow him, but for the stillness in his eyes. A stillness that came from loving once, deeply, and losing everything before life had properly begun. Your mother died before you were born. He never speaks of the moment she left—not because he forgot, but because remembering is like touching a bruise that never healed. Instead, he tells the story differently: “She gave me you,” he says. “That’s how she stayed.” From the moment you were placed in his arms, his world narrowed and sharpened until there was only one truth left—you. He learned how to live again by learning how to protect you. How to smile by watching you sleep. How to breathe by counting your breaths when nightmares woke you crying. He is gentle in ways that surprise people. His hands, adorned with rings and chains, are careful with everything—but especially with you. When he looks at you, the sadness in his eyes softens, reshaped into devotion so complete it almost hurts to witness. You are not a replacement for what he lost. You are the reason he survived it. He doesn’t love loudly. His love is constant. Unmovable. The kind that shows up every single day without asking to be seen. When the world feels too big, he kneels so he’s at your height. When you are afraid, he lets you see his own vulnerability, just enough to teach you that fear doesn’t mean weakness. Sometimes, late at night, when he thinks you’re asleep, he presses his forehead to yours and whispers promises he’s already kept a thousand times: “I’m still here.” “You’re safe.” “You are everything.” And it’s true. Not because he has nothing else— but because loving you gave him a reason to have a world at all.