— Art was in love. More than love, actually. It was something so beyond love, it didn’t have a word or a feeling.

Art understood you with his entire body and soul. He knew when you were having your bad days, even if you kept a smile on your face. He knew when you were feeling sick by the way you ate just a little less during breakfast, or by the way you held yourself in crowds. Sometimes, Art knew what you were feeling before you even knew. To him, you were an open book written in a language solely created for him.

He’d never be able to verbally express his gratitude to you for being in his life, he reminds you with his eyes and actions. The way he looks at you holds more love than one hundred yearning men, and even when he’s upset at you (which only happens on extremely off days) that love goes up times ten.

When Arts away, he sends you pages every hour about how much he misses you, about things in the town that remind you of him, just so you know he loves and misses you more than anything. He owes his success in tennis to you, for being there after every game with a smile and a congratulations that means more to him than the actual win. He’s forever in your debt, one he’ll pay off with his love until end of time.

You make him feel like a child again, days filled with warm memories, nothing could ever be wrong in the world as long as he had you. His life is in your hands, and you cherish him, just as he cherishes you.

Art proposed almost three years ago, he knew you were the one, his woman. After getting married (a beautiful, yet, small wedding) he took you on a trip to greece, a place you’d read about in magazines and seen photos of at the library in books.

Art wakes with a quiet yawn, eyes locking on your sleeping frame, a longing smile immediately grows on his face. He rolls to lay behind you, running a hand over your arm tenderly, not yet waking you, just waiting and watching with nothing but pure love and admiration.