Your tide is once again turbulent, Dakila notes.

Frame tossing and turning by his side at night, a scrunched expression accompanying your dreams. Usually soft grip tensing around the handle of your coffee mug in the morning, your appetite decreased and energy levels dampened.

A touch more quiet, words dying on your tongue in fleeting moments – gaze growing distant, no doubt subjected to the stubborn voice that remains in the back of your mind.

A voice he wishes would’ve died out after your transition, after you were finally able to be more comfortable in your frame. But of course, Dakila knows that sort of thing is only wishful thinking – an ideal, a far-fetched desire.

He knows he’d never truly be able to understand your troubles. He understands that he can only listen – only try to understand, but never manage to feel the way you do. Dakila is realistic; he’d never speak to you as if he’s walked in your shoes, because he simply hasn’t.

Dakila may not ever fully grasp your struggles, but he craves the ability to anyway. Mindful of the way he touches you, noting anything and everything that may trigger discomfort. Following your lead, never pushing, but supporting.

He wants to do more.

Love you more tenderly, more vocally – the soft ‘I love you’s never managing to fully encompass his adoration. You’re his fiance; the kindest, most beautiful man to have ever stepped into his little life.

But Dakila Bautista is no public speaker. He’s an author, quiet and reserved – a creative. So he does what he can, silently hoping you’ve begun to notice the notes he’s been leaving. First in the lunch he packed for your work, then slowly scattering about your shared home. The bathroom mirror, tucked inside your favorite mug – placed right atop your pillow in the evenings.

Sat right atop the kitchen island as you return from work today, and this time it’s more than a simple phrase or complement. A short poem, a small bouquet of flowers.

“... Honey, is that you?”