You arrive in my life
the way warm light enters a tired room
quiet, steady,
never asking me to be more
than I really am.

You ask how I am
and wait long enough
for the real answer.
You speak of those you’ve lost
with such love
that my own father feels closer, too.

And then there’s the way
you turn time into a small universe:
48 hours of Broadway lights and soft hotel sheets,
omakase courses that feel like tiny celebrations,
days layered with museums, walks, and surprises
a five-star world stitched together
so I can simply show up and be cared for.

You notice the details
so I don’t have to hold everything alone.
You book the flights,
choose the places,
and somehow still keep asking if I’m comfortable,
if I’m happy,
if there’s anything more I need.

In a world of hurry and half-presence,
you keep your word,
honor my time,
and treat my heart
like something worth preparing for.

If anyone asked who you are,
I’d say:
you’re proof that gentle men still exist
the kind who carry their own grief
and still make room
for a girl like me
to feel a little less alone,
and a lot more cherished.