Love is Deep

Love Is Deep

Most people think love is supposed to be loud.

They expect fireworks, grand romantic gestures, dramatic declarations under rainy skies or at crowded airports. They expect love to roar, to make noise, to be seen.

But I’ve learned that real love — the kind that stays with you long after the person is gone — is rarely loud. Love is deep.

It’s not always about roses or candlelit dinners. Sometimes, it’s about who shows up when no one else does. Who listens without judgment. Who holds your hand without needing to be asked. Who stays — especially on the hard days.

I met her when I wasn’t looking for love. To be honest, I didn’t even think I was capable of it anymore. I had grown numb, buried under the weight of past heartbreaks, disappointments, and the kind of loneliness that doesn’t shout but sits quietly in the corners of your life.

She wasn’t the kind of girl who demanded attention. She wasn’t loud, flashy, or trying to be seen. She just was. Present. Consistent. Calm.

It started with simple things.

She remembered how I liked my coffee — not too strong, one sugar, oat milk. She’d send me random texts in the middle of the day: “Drink water. Please.” Or “I saw this book and thought of you.” She never asked for anything in return. She just gave — time, patience, presence.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with that kind of love.

It felt unfamiliar. Safe, but unsettling. I kept waiting for the catch. But it never came.

One night, we sat on my apartment floor eating leftover pizza. The power had gone out, candles flickered in the silence, and for a moment I looked at her — really looked. No distractions. No phones. Just her, and the sound of her voice telling me a story from her childhood.

And that’s when it hit me: I felt peace.

Not excitement. Not obsession. Not butterflies. Peace. The kind of quiet that feels like home. The kind of warmth that settles in your chest and makes you feel safe for the first time in a long time.

That was the moment I knew — this is love.


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Over the months, I learned what deep love really looks like.

It’s in the unspoken moments. The way she squeezed my hand when I was anxious, no words needed. The way she gave me space when I needed to be alone, but stayed close enough that I didn’t feel abandoned.

It was in the way she fought — not to win, but to understand.

It was in the way she showed up at my door when I hadn’t replied for hours, just to make sure I was okay. No anger. Just concern.

We didn’t need to say “I love you” every day, because we lived it in the way we treated each other. Love wasn’t something we had to prove. It was something we practiced.

And just like that, she became part of me.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like a storm. More like a slow-growing tree — roots deep, strong, unshakable.

But not all love stories last forever. At least not in the way we want them to.

Life has a strange way of changing everything.

A new job took her to another city. We tried to stay connected, but time and distance slowly did what neither of us wanted to admit. We drifted.

There was no big fight. No betrayal. Just life, unfolding in ways we couldn’t control.

The last time we saw each other, she hugged me a little longer. She looked at me like she was memorizing my face. And before she walked away, she whispered, “Thank you for making me feel safe.”

That’s when I knew: she loved me too. Deeply. Quietly. Completely.


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Even now, years later, she’s still with me — not physically, but in the way I love others. In the way I slow down and listen. In the way I remember little details. In the way I try to be someone’s peace, not their chaos.

Love is deep when it doesn’t need to be loud.

It lives in the small things.
The gentle moments.
The promises that were never spoken, but always kept.
It doesn’t scream to be noticed.
It simply stays — long after everything else is gone.