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He showed up infront of my room’s door at 12am to give me a single white rose.
I stared at him for a few seconds because I was absolutely shocked. 

Her,

writefreedom:

Most of all I remember his voice, the way his words wash over me and bring me closer to him with every change in tone. And then I realise it is not a memory, but still the present; I can still hear his voice every day, and know his words are spoken to me, that the cliché professions of love are all for me; does he quite understand what he does to me? Each night we lie in each other’s arms and I don’t know if I could ever let him go; I remember all too well what it is like to lie alone, what it’s like not to have his arms encompassing me or his heartbeat thudding against my ribs. I couldn’t bear another night like that, not a night without his breath, sweet and cool, playing across my neck as he sleeps; not a dawn without him hiding from the morning light by burying his face in my hair, whispering a throaty ‘good morning’; it could not be done, I could not sleep alone any more. He is waking now; there is his head nuzzling into my shoulder where my hair is swept, here is his ‘good morning’, oh, his voice…