Stitches.

No, I don’t think love hits like an arrow.
It is something too delicate and fragile and beautiful to manifest itself in a way so crude,so overt.
It is something far more subtle, far more insidious.
The first pinprick of a needle, drawing but a drop of blood.
The first tug at the heartstrings as the needle pulls, and finds its mark again.
You can’t stop it, and you’re not entirely sure that you want it to.
It pulls on, quietly in the background.
A smile, a stitch.
A laugh, a stitch.
A pleasant memory that tickles that tucked away corner in your heart and that oft-ignored nook in your soul; a stitch.
A movie and the smell of melting butter and the sound of popping corn. Greasy fingers and lips; a stitch.
A brush of fingertips, soft and cautious; a stitch.
An arm around you, your head on a familiar shoulder, enveloped in a warmth and comfort you can never get enough of. A stitch, piecing together old wounds, staunching the blood that leaks out of it.
An embarrassing story that will be repeated a million times over; teasing jibes and full-throated laughter, a stitch.
On and on.
Until one day, you realise.
You’ve cross-stitched him onto your heart.

Gautami.

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