When I Learned Love Doesn’t Always Stay

I used to believe that love, once found, was like a lighthouse—steady, unwavering, guiding you safely through life’s storms. I thought that when two people truly cared for each other, they could weather anything together. I clung to this belief like a child clutching a favorite blanket. But life has a way of gently, and sometimes painfully, teaching us that not all things meant to be will stay forever.

It happened slowly. There wasn’t a dramatic explosion, no shouting matches, no betrayal. It was quieter than that—like autumn leaves falling one by one until you suddenly notice the branches are bare. The laughter between us came less often. The “good morning” texts turned into a quick nod before heading out the door. The warmth of their hand in mine felt absent, even when it was physically there.

I kept telling myself it was just a season. People go through rough patches, right? Love is about holding on, not letting go at the first sign of trouble. I tried harder—planning little surprises, asking about their day, offering more affection. But I could feel something slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I tried to hold it.

One evening, we sat across from each other at dinner. The candle flickered between us, but it didn’t feel romantic anymore—just a tiny flame in a room that had gone cold. I searched their eyes for that familiar spark, the one that had made me feel like the luckiest person in the world. It wasn’t there. And in that moment, I realized that love can fade, even when you don’t want it to.

The truth is, love doesn’t always leave because someone is “bad” or “wrong” for you. Sometimes it leaves because people grow in different directions. Sometimes the things that once connected you aren’t enough to hold you together anymore. And sometimes, love just… runs its course.

At first, I wanted to fight it. I thought if I just did more, gave more, loved more, we could fix it. But I was learning that love isn’t something you can trap in a jar and keep on the shelf. It needs space, freedom, and mutual desire to stay alive. Without those, it drifts away—no matter how much you wish it wouldn’t.

Letting go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I cried into my pillow at night, replaying the good memories like a favorite movie. I kept wondering if there was something I missed—some sign I should have seen earlier. But slowly, a quiet truth settled in: just because love doesn’t stay forever doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, or beautiful, or worth having.

Some loves are meant to last a lifetime. Others are meant to shape us, teach us, and prepare us for the person we’re becoming. My love with them taught me patience, empathy, and the importance of truly listening. It taught me that vulnerability is not a weakness, and that it’s okay to open your heart even when there’s a risk it might break.

Months later, I found myself walking through the same park where we used to spend lazy Sunday afternoons. The air was crisp, the trees painted in gold and amber. I didn’t feel the sharp sting of loss anymore. Instead, I felt gratitude—for the time we had, for the lessons learned, and for the fact that I had been brave enough to love at all.

Love doesn’t always stay. But that doesn’t make it less important. Sometimes, it’s the temporary loves that teach us the most about ourselves. They remind us that life is full of beginnings and endings, and that both are essential to growth.

I no longer see love as a lighthouse that will stand unchanged for eternity. I see it as a campfire—something you gather around, something that warms you, lights up the darkness, and leaves you with memories you carry long after the flames have gone out.

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Thank you for reading

Best Regards: Habib