We talk about love like it's easy—
like breath,
like morning light.
I love coffee,
I love these flowers,
we say,
as if the phrase weighs nothing.
But when it's aimed at a heart,
it trembles—
and suddenly,
so do we.
We say I love you
without knowing the cost.
Because no one loves
the way you do.
We carry love etched in childhood—
soft maps of how to hold and flee.
Yes, someone may come close,
but they will never
be your way of loving.
Love takes forms the ancients never named—
in silence, in fur, in roots and sky.
We shape it
to fit what we need it to be.
And yes,
I see the beauty.
But I also see
the ache.
Because real love
asks for sacrifice.
Sometimes,
they pack a suitcase in silence—
leave a note on the fridge—
not because they've stopped loving you,
but because they love you
too much
to stay.
And we say:
Stay. Let them love you. Let them help.
But sometimes
staying
is the very thing
that would break them too.
If love is real,
they say,
it will return.
Maybe not in arms,
but in memory,
in peace,
in growth.
Love is not just
shared playlists,
quiet coffees,
or laughter in soft light.
It's the shadows, too.
The long silences.
The sharp edges.
To love someone
is to love their flaws—
but never at the cost
of yourself.
Because love without boundaries
is fire
without form.
And love without words
becomes silence
too loud to bear.
You can love,
be loved,
and still watch it fall apart—
and that's what makes love so cruel:
how it burns so brightly
yet leaves you reaching in the dark.