DO NOT COPY
The world had already taught you too much. It taught you how to flinch at raised voices, how to smile when something hurt, how to settle for bare minimums and call them blessings. It taught you that romance was noise — loud, messy, brash — all hands and hunger, all ego and urgency. It taught you that love was a game, a chase, a battlefield. And you… you were tired of fighting.
Then came Isaiah.
Not with swagger. Not with a smirk. But with the kind of presence that made the noise fall quiet — not just outside, but within you. His love did not barrel into your life like a storm. It came like morning light after a long, soul-bruising night. Soft. Steady. Holy.
You didn’t fall in love with him like in the movies — not all at once, not with some dramatic kiss in the rain. You fell in love with him slowly, in a thousand quiet ways. The way he’d text you, “Have you eaten?” instead of “Send pic.” The way he never made you prove your worth but reminded you that you were already enough. The way he said “Let’s pray about it” when things got hard, instead of running. The way he protected your dignity in every conversation, never speaking of you as anything but his answered prayer.
In a generation drunk on instant gratification, Isaiah was a man who waited. For your comfort. For your permission. For God’s timing. And he made the wait feel like worship, not punishment.
He called you “cuore mio” — my heart — like you were something delicate, precious, chosen. And every time he said it, you could feel the weight of it behind his words. A man doesn’t call a woman that unless he intends to carry her heart like a sacred vow.
Your love story wasn’t flashy. There were no grand gestures posted online. But there were mornings he brought you flowers for no reason. Days he showed up outside your workplace just to walk you home. Nights he’d hold your hand during prayer, whispering a quiet “thank you” before kissing your forehead.
Then came that Sunday — a soft, sunlit morning that felt more like a dream than a memory. You had just come out of chapel, your heart full, your spirit stilled. And there he was, under the old acacia tree where he always waited. His Bible pressed to his chest, your favorite pastries in hand, a bashful smile spreading across his face like warmth.
“Cuore mio,” he greeted, his voice like velvet sunlight, “church date?”
You laughed, a little shy, a little stunned. “You make it sound so romantic.”
He tilted his head, his gaze tender and knowing. “That’s because it is. Loving you... is a prayer answered. Worship isn’t just in the songs — it’s in the way I hold your hand, the way I wait for you, the way I stay.”
Later, as you both sat beneath the tree, the breeze whispering through the leaves and the sky streaked with a golden hush, he turned to you with a Psalm half-read on his lap and something deeper in his eyes.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “I think God really took His time with you.”
Your heart stuttered. “Why?”
He smiled, soft and slow. “Because when I look at you, I don’t see temptation. I see purpose. I see someone I want to serve, not possess. To lead in prayer, not just passion. I don’t want to be the man who touches your body before I’ve touched Heaven on your behalf.”
And that’s when you knew. This wasn’t just a boyfriend. This was a man after God’s own heart — and yours.