I sat on the floor, legs crossed, the hazel hue of my heart expanding with each note. In that moment, I understood something I hadn’t before: my crush on him wasn’t about the way he looked or the jokes he told. It was about the courage he showed when he stepped into the unknown, the way his heart—my hazel heart—mirrored his own, beating in sync with a rhythm that was both fragile and fierce.
I smiled, my chest swelling with a love that was both childlike and mature. I realized then that the word “crush” was too small a vessel for what I felt. It was admiration, it was reverence, it was a yearning to share in his wonder, to be close enough to taste the same sunrise he chased in his mind each morning. dadcrush hazel heart
“Listen to this,” he said, and began to play a simple, clumsy melody. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw, earnest, and it filled the room with a kind of honest music I’d never heard before. I sat on the floor, legs crossed, the
When the song ended, my dad looked at me, his eyes a shade of blue that reminded me of the sky just before sunrise. “You know,” he said, “when I was your age, I thought being a dad would be the hardest thing I’d ever do. Turns out, it’s just learning how to be a kid again—how to see the world through fresh eyes.” I smiled, my chest swelling with a love
When I was twelve, I began to notice how his hands could be gentle as a whisper when he brushed a stray feather from my hair, and how they could be fierce as a storm when he fixed a broken bike chain at three in the morning. I watched the way he’d tuck the corner of a newspaper under his chin, read a line, and then look up as if the world had just said something profound. I wanted that world for myself. I wanted to be the one who could hold a piece of his wonder.