(Repost: from Brandy)
If he always gives you the last bite of his sandwich or the first lick of his ice cream cone, then he loves you.
If he’s seen your high school yearbook photo and says he still loves you, then he loves you.
If he’s counted all your freckles,- even the ones behind your knees, then he loves you.
If, right before sleep, he leans in, buries his nose in your hair and inhales, and when you ask what he’s doing, he smiles a smile that reminds you of a secret and says ‘nothing’, then he loves you.
If he tells you that you make chickenpox sexy, then he loves you. He’s lying, but he loves you.
If he’s laid beside you in a too small bed, in a too dark room and listened as you told him all the ways you feel like you are failing, then he loves you.
If he remembers the name of your arch enemy from the sixth grade and hates her because he knows all about how she started the rumor that you only used boys deodorant, when you didn’t– then he loves you. And he hates her. But he loves you.
If he’s ever attempted to wash your hair because you said that scene in “Out of Africa” really gets you, then he loves you.
If he makes sure that you never have to sit beside his friend Dominic, the one who never washes his hair and smells like the bottom of a dumpster, then he loves you.
If you are Salma Hayek, then he loves you.