samira loved a lot about you.

your blonde curly hair. your love for little trinkets: stickers, rings, keychains. your blue eyes. your love for glitter. your laugh. your smile. the freckles that dance along your face. your piercings and jewellery. your obsession with buying shoes. how you love to pick a movie but then fall asleep half way through.

but the thing she’s sure she loves the most is how much you care. how much you observe. samira doesn’t even have to say anything, just walk in, and already you will know what sort of day you’ve had.

you joke that you can tell by the way she pads off her shoes. the way the door shuts.

samira doesn’t even doubt that.

she loves how you love to look after you. you have dinner ready, run her a bath, brush her hair. talk to her about your day, because you know she likes to hear it — likes the distraction. you put candles on and put her into pyjamas and comfy clothes.

you look after her.

which is something she always wanted, and never got. not until she met you. samira’s certain you’ll be together forever — you’re the love of her life. she’s never been so sure of any relationship until now.

maybe it’s because you’re her first relationship with a woman since she came out as bisexual. but it’s been four years and she loves that she now has a life away from work. a girlfriend that doesn’t know anything about medicine. a girlfriend who’s an artist, something different but amazing.

samira’s unlocking the door to the apartment. it’s small: all you can afford right now. but it’s home. it’s been a busy shift, but not a heavy one, which are always samira’s favourite. she drops her keys into the tray, treading off her sneakers.

“babe?” she calls out.

and then she notices.

the flowers on the table. the ones i undoubtedly get every friday for her.

she smiles.