He used to call me
“my little love.”
Not because I was small,
but because, in his heart,
I was someone to be held and protected.
He would hold my hand in a crowded street,
as if afraid I might slip away
from his world.
He would kneel to tie my shoelaces,
and softly say:
“Don’t walk too fast —
let me keep up with you.”
I once thought love meant leaning on someone,
being cherished above all else.
I lived inside that tenderness,
until I realized
I had truly become small
within my own life.
The day he left,
he told me I needed someone stronger to depend on.
I stayed silent.
Because he never knew —
love isn’t about shrinking yourself
to fit inside someone’s embrace.
It took me a long time
to learn how to stand tall
without needing a hand to hold,
to understand that
even a small heart
can love deeply
and grow bravely.
Now, if anyone calls me
“my little love,”
I will smile and say:
I may be small in someone’s arms,
but I am strong
in my own life.
