Every time he goes for a shower or checks his phone or takes a nap, every time he gets busy, I steal those moments to write in my little yellow diary. I write about him mostly. About how I feel when I run my hands through his hair, or the texture of his beard, or the way the tiny droplets of water dripping from his hair settle on his shoulder after a shower.
I observe the way he wipes his forehead after a workout and the way he sits staring into the fire. How he fidgets with the keyring while talking on the phone.
Every ordinary part of his day is a memorable event, his every word my poetry, his every smile a kind of souvenir that I can take with me wherever I go.
He may never notice that he taps the coffee mug while listening to the news or watching cricket, but I have memorized dozens of patterns of his tapping.
He’ll probably never know how he frowns and curls his lips while opening his eyes every morning. But I…I’ve studied him so well that I may be able to correct him in being him.