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I don't remember when I started feeling this way.
I'm sitting on her honey-coloured bedsheets, resting my chin in my palm, my book lying open and forgotten in front of me. A few feet away, she's sitting at her desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. It was an old habit she had. She says it helps her focus.
There's warm rays of sun leaking in through the gaps in her colourful curtains. They land on her so perfectly, painting her brown skin and golden hair in varying shades of warmth. It suits her name— Mel. Honeyed. A comfort unmatched.
I cannot stop the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips as I watch her.
I'm grateful to have someone so perfect in my life.
She pauses. She's biting the back of her pencil, brow furrowed— before abruptly sitting up and turning back to face me. I flinch, straightening, praying I don't look like I'd been staring.
"Dia," she calls, the shape of my name perfect on her lips. "What's that word?" She absently taps the pencil on the notebook, wondering how to describe it. "For when, say, you're deeply invested in something. But more... affectionately, I suppose?"
I consider the question, flipping through the words I knew in my head.
"I swear," she continues, "the word's at the tip of my tongue. It's right there— I know that I know it."
"Let me look," I say, pushing myself off the bed and walking over to where she sat. She hands me the notebook— I ignore how my heart skipped a beat as our fingers lightly brush.
I'm looking down at the words written in purple ink on the page, but I'm not reading them. I'm too focused on how she's looking at me. I glance down at her in what I hope is a discreet manner. God, she has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, the colour of clean cobalt seas. Her cheeks were sprinkled with freckles a few shades darker than her dawn-dappled skin. They're more visible in the summer— another reason for it to be my favourite season.
Seasons. Always changing, yet always familiar. I've seen her across them all, and for many years now. How she's grown. Bloomed like the flowery embrace of spring, warm like the melting rays of summer, bright like the shine of snow in winter.
"Enamoured," I say, my voice softer than I expected it to be. "That's the word you're looking for. Enamoured."