This Man Is Not Romantic

I am a hopeless romantic.

I stop for beautiful sunsets. A certain song can send me straight back to a moment I thought I’d forgotten. I love birthdays, anniversaries, little surprises, candles for no particular reason.

If I could turn a rainy afternoon into a poem, I probably would.

And then there’s the man I married.

He is not romantic.

At all.

He doesn’t write cards.

And I don’t mean he writes bad cards.

He does not write cards.

There was no proposal that left me sobbing into my hands. No flowers hidden behind his back. No carefully planned surprise that somehow involved string lights and our favorite song.

Anniversaries?

Well.

A few days before, I’ll casually ask,

“So… anything special you want to do this weekend?”

Then comes the pause.

Two seconds.

Maybe three.

You can almost hear the calendar loading.

“Oh. Yeah.”

Right.

Our anniversary.

When I was younger, I’ll admit, this hurt.

I cried over it more than once.

It wasn’t really about the flowers.

I just wanted to know:

The things that matter to me—do they matter to you, too?

For a long time, I thought he simply didn’t understand romance.

Then one day, we were out with friends.

The place was crowded, and I fell behind while talking to someone.

By the time I looked up, he was several steps ahead of me.

Typical, I thought.

But then he stopped.

He turned around, found me in the crowd, and waited.

No waving.

No “Come on!”

He just stood there until I caught up.

When I reached him, he handed me the jacket he’d been carrying.

“Put this on. It’s getting cold.”

And then he started walking again.

That was it.

No meaningful look.

No swelling soundtrack.

Apparently, Hollywood was not involved.

I put on the jacket and followed him.

But something about that tiny moment stayed with me.

This man—the one who occasionally needs a gentle reminder that our anniversary is, in fact, still on the same date every year—never needs reminding that I get cold.

He remembers how I take my coffee.

He knows what I won’t eat.

He notices when I’m tired, sometimes before I say it.

And when he gets too far ahead, he turns around to make sure I’m still there.

I never asked him to memorize those things.

He never announced that he had.

He just… remembered.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something.

The younger version of me who cried over forgotten flowers wasn’t really asking for flowers.

She was asking:

Do you see me?

Do I live somewhere in your heart?

Now I know the answer.

He may not remember every date on the calendar.

But somehow,

he remembers me.

My habits.

My likes.

My dislikes.

The fact that I will absolutely be cold even after insisting, five minutes earlier, that I won’t need a jacket.

That, apparently, is his version of romance.

Now, before anyone gets carried away—

I have not given up on mine.

I still love flowers.

I still love surprises.

I still stop for sunsets, and yes, I still believe ordinary days deserve a little magic.

I’m still the same hopelessly romantic girl.

The difference is that now, when we’re walking through a crowd and I see him stop a few steps ahead and turn around to look for me,

I smile.

I walk a little faster until I’m beside him.

And I think,

Okay.

This counts.

But just to be clear—

flowers on our anniversary would still be lovely.

I’m romantic.

Not unreasonable.

For the Maylina in your heart.