That’s what you fall in love with. Not the whole of a person. Not their general appearance. Not their entire spirit or personality or being.

It’s the details. All the infinitesimal details. The slightness of your half-smile. The face you always make when looking in the mirror.

It’s refusing to wear pants inside. And how you hold me while we try to fall asleep. Taking every opportunity to dance naked. Buying holiday candy only after the holiday is over. And never wanting to walk to the mailbox alone.

The way you say “I’m sorry.” And how you always laugh hardest at your own jokes. Your grumpiness on Sunday mornings. And your strange obsession with oscillating fans.

That’s how I always know I’m starting to care beyond the superficial. When someone asks me what I like about you. And I have no answer.

Because there isn’t a single legitimate thing I like about you. There are only one thousand details.