I have always known that love could be intense, but nothing prepared me for you. You are Prodigious—a force of nature, a brilliance so rare that even the universe must have paused to admire its own creation. And yet, somehow, you are mine.

But even in the warmth of that truth, I feel the sting of jealousy. Not because I doubt what we have, but because the world sees you too. They admire you, desire you, and I can’t help but want to shield you from their longing gazes.

Loving you feels like standing in the presence of something vast and infinite. You are effortless in your brilliance, commanding attention without asking for it. Every thought you share, every glance you cast, holds a quiet power that pulls people in.

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And I? I am the one lucky enough to be in your embrace, to hear your unguarded laughter, to know the way your mind works in its most intimate moments. But that does not stop the jealousy from creeping in—the quiet fear that someone else might dream of you the way I do, that they might wish for what I have.

It is not that I want to own you; you are too wild and free for that. But I want the world to know that you are mine, that your heart beats in rhythm with mine. And when eyes linger on you too long, when admiration turns into something more, I feel it—a possessiveness I never knew I was capable of.

Not because I doubt you, but because you are Prodigious. You leave an imprint on everyone you meet, and selfishly, I want to be the one imprinting on you the most.

But in the end, love is not about possession. It is about trust, about knowing that no matter how many eyes see your light, only I get to stand in its warmth. And that is enough. You are mine, and I am yours. And nothing—no admiration, no longing stares—can ever change that.