Love unfiltered

They met, like most people do these days, through a screen.

It wasn’t love at first swipe. In fact, Tessa almost skipped over his profile entirely—his bio was barely there, just a single line: “Ask me anything, just don’t ask me to filter myself.” It felt cheesy. But something about his eyes in the third photo—where he was laughing at something off-camera, completely unaware—made her pause.

She swiped right. So did he.

Their conversations weren’t perfect. They stumbled over typos, laughed at stupid jokes, and often left messages hanging until the next morning. But it was real. None of the “What’s your star sign?” small talk. They talked about real things—her fear of becoming invisible in a world obsessed with being seen. His love for music he never had the courage to share. The time she cried in a bathroom at a party. The time he froze onstage during an open mic.

They sent voice notes. No filters, no second takes. Just awkward pauses, real laughs, and late-night thoughts recorded at 2:03 a.m.

When they finally decided to meet in person, there was no pressure. Tessa wore no makeup, just her favorite hoodie and old jeans. Eli showed up with messy hair and mismatched socks. They met at a quiet café downtown where the chairs wobbled and the coffee was always too strong—

but it was theirs from the moment they sat down.

She didn’t know how or when it happened exactly, but somewhere between the crooked smiles and long walks where neither of them checked their phones, she started to fall. Not in the movie-scene kind of way. But in the way that made her feel safe. Seen. Like she could be messy and soft and loud all at once.

One evening, as they watched the sun set from his rooftop, Eli pulled out a camera. Not his phone, a real camera—old, slightly scratched, and well-loved.

“I want to take a photo of you,” he said.

Tessa rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Why?”

“Because this is the you I want to remember.”

She didn’t pose. Didn’t fix her hair. She just looked at him, raw and open. He clicked the shutter.

That photo became their favorite. Not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t.

As the seasons changed, so did they. Slowly, naturally. They argued sometimes. About little things, like whether pineapple belonged on pizza (Tessa said no, Eli said absolutely yes). About bigger things, like trust, timing, and past wounds that sometimes reopened.

But they always talked. Really talked.
One night, after a long day, she broke down. No warning. Just tears. She didn’t know why—it had been building up, a quiet weight.

“I’m tired of pretending I’m okay all the time,” she whispered.

Eli pulled her close, forehead to forehead.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “Ever.”

That was the moment. Not the first kiss, or the first “I love you.” But this—her vulnerability, and his quiet promise to hold space for it. That was when she knew.

Love, unfiltered, wasn’t grand gestures or perfect timing. It was morning hair and silent car rides. It was showing up, even when it was hard. It was choosing someone again and again—not because they were flawless, but because they were real.

And in a world full of filters, that kind of love was rare.

Love, unfiltered, wasn’t grand gestures or perfect timing. It was morning hair and silent car rides. It was showing up, even when it was hard. It was choosing someone again and again—not because they were flawless, but because they were real.

Love, unfiltered, wasn’t grand gestures or perfect timing. It was morning hair and silent car rides. It was showing up, even when it was hard. It was choosing someone again and again—not because they were flawless, but because they were real.