How I Know I'm Being Cared for Without Being Told

There’s a certain kind of love that doesn’t need announcing. It doesn’t come in grand gestures or loud, cinematic speeches. It’s quieter than all that. It’s so quiet that you might miss it if you aren’t paying enough attention. Once you notice it, though, you’ll start seeing it everywhere.

You notice it when your sister brings home your favourite candy without you asking.

You notice it when your mom gives you the last piece of cake even if she wanted it.

You notice it when your friend sends you a picture of the sunset because she knows it’s your favourite part of the day, and you notice it when someone listens—really listens—even when it’s something so trivial and unforgettable.

Care is in the way your tea is made exactly the way you like it.

It’s in the text that says “Home safe?” after a night out.

It’s in the extra pair of gloves being pushed into my hands because I forgot my own pair at home.

Sometimes, it isn’t about material things—it’s about time. The kind of time someone gives you without rushing. Without checking their phone, without looking over your shoulder for the next thing. The time they give you to be you.

I think the most beautiful thing about this kind of love is that it’s effortless. It isn’t a performance. It’s woven into the fabric of who they are, and they give it without expecting anything in return.

You don’t need to hear “I love you.” everyday to feel it.

Sometimes it’s just in the way someone remembers your coffee order.

It’s the way your dad will come home with a bag of oranges because you mentioned you liked them once briefly over dinner.

It’s someone making space for you to be exactly who you are.

I’ve come to learn that love doesn’t need to be loud. It can be wedged into the crevices of everyday life. It ebbs and glows in the quiet parts of the afternoon and rises in the steam of your morning coffee.

To me, it’s the quiet moments of everyday life that whisper you matter. To me, that’s special.

From my window seat to yours,

Chiara