To my one and only

To my one and only

You know this already,

but I’ve changed so much since I met you.

While spending this summer in South Korea,

while returning to London for uni,

even while preparing for your birthday—

I kept thinking about it again and again.

It’s kind of mysterious,

how one person can have such an immense influence on another.

Sometimes I barely recognize myself—
how much I’ve changed because of you.

But then I realize:

these are all changes I had been quietly longing for,
all along.

So thank you, my love.

If I mean even a fraction of this to you,

if we’re truly feeling the same kind of love,

then that must be fate—don’t you think?

I no longer hate myself so much I want to disappear.

Uni doesn’t feel like a war zone anymore.

And even when I’m spending time alone,
independent and at ease,

you slipping into some quiet corner of that day never feels like a disruption.

It’s rare, having someone to talk with

about lofty, philosophical things—

but also completely childish, silly things.

To share the same space and same life with that person,
day after day.

To know each other so well that there’s no need to hide,
no need to perform.

To have someone beside me who supports
every version of me,
unconditionally.

And to feel like I can understand
every version of you in return.

Lately, I feel this… ontological gratitude.

Thank you for being born.

Thank you for existing.

Thank you for recognizing me—instantly, and so clearly.

I want to live with that kind of quiet thankfulness,

for a long, long time.

After spending these two weeks with you—

sharing every morning and night,

arguing over silly things and having serious talks
with our serious faces—

I’ve realized something:

you really are an idiot. At least when it comes to love.

No matter how capable or intelligent
the world thinks you are,

no matter how rational you pretend to be—

the way you become such a helpless, nose-dripping fool
in front of me

is just… ridiculous. And wonderful.

You are not a foolish person.

But in love, you’re gloriously foolish.

And I love that foolishness.

I love your soft, fearless vulnerability.

Truly—I do.

I want to live with a grateful heart.

And I want you to stay foolish, just as you are.

Like I said before—

I can’t promise how many of your birthdays I’ll get to be here for.

But I truly hope luck follows us quietly in our daily lives.

I hope there are always small blessings, just for us.

And that we never forget how to be thankful for them.

Like when a project crit we worked so hard on goes well.

Or the canteen food turns out better than expected.

Or when you happen to snag the last pistachio cookie.

Small things like that.

Because really, only now can we talk endlessly

about these tiny, beautiful nothings.

Only now, in this season, in this city,

in this exact moment where we both exist.

So let’s keep celebrating.

Let’s keep giving thanks.

Let’s keep sharing our ordinary lives

in ways that feel anything but ordinary.

You were right, you know.

Now I understand.

I don’t want any more, or any less.

If life could simply stay at this temperature,

that would be enough.

And if that’s what you meant—

then yes, I guess it means I’m sincerely happy now.

I hope we can keep being happy, together.

Happy birthday.

Let’s go to the Netherlands soon.
Really. Not someday—soon.

My one and only,

I’ve said this before,

but I still mean it every time:

I’m grateful the world sent you to me.

Grateful for my own moth-like recklessness,

throwing myself into something so bright

I couldn’t even tell if it was romantic love or something bigger,

something human and infinite.

I love where I am now.

I love what I feel, here with you.

So I won’t write “I love you”—

but know that it’s there, in every line.

Sincerely,

your one and only

To you, who saved my life

To my one and only

To my Bestie