They tell me

They tell me that is love. If that isn't, then why do you bother yourself caring about me? Like the day when I was outside, you texted me that it would be a thunderstorm and I was better at home. Or like that early morning you woke me up when I was fallen asleep in the couch and you asked me to go to my room. Or like the random times you asked what time I went to bed last night and how was my project's progress. Or like the night when my room was occupied by guests, and you worried that I would sleep in the common room.

They tell me that is love. If that isn't, then why do you like to be with me that much? Like all the nights you sat beside me in the couch just to talk, or watch movies. Or like the day we spent outside riding bicycle when you took me to your usual game training. Or all the times you asked me to accompany you and wait for you while you do anything you need to do. 

They tell me that is love. If that isn't, then why do you do those simple things to me but not to others? Like the morning you suddenly made me a sandwich. Or like the night you calmed me down when you teased me and I cried. Or, if you remember, the night you laid in the couch in front of me, with your pillows and your duvet, accompanied me until three a.m. in the morning. 

They tell me that is love. If that isn't, then why did you look so into me? Like the time you were so excited when your friend asked whether I am your girlfriend and keep teasing me about that. Or the time you made a long stare at me until I couldn't pretend I didn't realise any longer.

They tell me that is love. They tell me they see it in your eyes. They see it in your laughs. They see it in your acts.

Yet, are we so blind that we ourselves can not see the love so obvious for others? Or is it just me who can't? Or is it me who choose not to?