Not loud, not perfect, but completely unforgettable.
Love isn’t always obvious. It doesn’t always arrive with grand gestures or fireworks. Sometimes, the love that leaves the deepest mark is quiet, and unexpected, the kind that stays with you long after the moment has passed.
We grow up thinking love is simple. That it’s just boy meets girl, sparks fly, happily ever after. But the older you get, the more you realise that love doesn’t fit into little, neat boxes. Sometimes it doesn’t announce itself with fireworks at all. Sometimes it just appears quietly, and before you know it, you’re carrying it around with you.
True love isn’t loud. It’s not the grand gestures, the cinematic speeches, the big finish with credits rolling. It’s in the tiny details. Someone noticing you’ve fallen quiet and asking if you’re okay. Someone catching a shift in your energy before you’ve even realised it yourself. It’s being seen when you thought you’d managed to hide.
And yet, sometimes that love can be so close it brushes against your skin, and still be out of reach. Like standing in front of a locked door with the key on the other side. You can feel it, you can almost taste it, but it isn’t yours to hold, at least not in the way you want. That’s the bittersweet part. To know something exists so deeply, so honestly, but not to live it fully.
It doesn’t make it less real. If anything, it makes it sharper. Because when love is both grounding and impossible, it sits in your chest like a weight and a light at the same time. Heavy because of the distance. Light because it reminds you what your heart is capable of.
And maybe that’s what makes true love so rare. It’s not always about possession or labels or a picture perfect story. Sometimes it’s just about the connection itself, the way someone knows you without words, the way their presence steadies you, the way you feel seen in a way you didn’t think possible.
It’s both a comfort and a curse, to love like that. To know it, but not own it. To feel it, but not claim it. To be so close, and yet so far.
But maybe love doesn’t have to be tidy or claimed to be true. Maybe the purest kind is simply the recognition of it, by knowing it exists, knowing it changed you, even if it never fits into the story you thought you’d have.
Because real love? It’s never wasted. It’s never pretend. And when it finds you, however it finds you, it leaves its mark not just in your heart, but in your soul 🫶
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