"Love, Laughs, and a Few Tears"

I never thought love could feel like a comedy show and a tragedy at the same time. But when I met Sana, everything changed. She was the type of person who could make the most boring day feel like a festival. Her laugh was contagious, her sarcasm sharp, and her ability to turn a disaster into a joke was unmatched.

We met at a friend’s tea party. I was trying to act smart and calm, holding a cup of tea, when Sana accidentally bumped into me and spilled it all over my shirt. I expected her to panic and apologize endlessly. Instead, she looked at my dripping shirt and said, “Well, at least now you smell like cardamom.” I laughed so hard I forgot to be angry. That was the first sign she was going to change my life.

In the beginning, our relationship was like a string of happy accidents. We planned a trip to a wedding in another city but took the wrong bus and ended up in a small village. Instead of complaining, we bought pakoras from a roadside stall and spent the whole day exploring. Once, we argued over whether pineapple belonged on pizza, only to discover neither of us even liked pineapple. Life was light, full of laughter, and filled with small, silly adventures.

But just like every rollercoaster, our ride had its steep drops. As months passed, little misunderstandings began to grow. Sana thought I didn’t listen to her enough; I thought she didn’t understand my struggles. She wanted more emotional connection; I wanted more peace after long days. The small things that used to make us laugh started to feel annoying.

Our arguments were never dramatic, but they were heavy. Sometimes, instead of talking, we just stayed silent, hoping the tension would disappear on its own. But silence can be louder than words. One evening, during a quiet dinner, Sana suddenly said, “Do you notice how we used to talk for hours but now we count the minutes?” That sentence hit me harder than any fight. I realized that without noticing, we had stopped sharing ourselves fully.

I decided we needed to try something new. I asked her to write down everything she wished I understood about her, and I promised to do the same. It sounded awkward, but she agreed. The next day, we exchanged our lists.

Her first point: “Stop eating my fries without asking.”

My first point: “Stop stealing my blanket at night.”

We couldn’t help laughing. Between the serious points—about trust, support, and understanding—there were funny little complaints that reminded us of our good times. That moment taught me something important: humor can be the bridge between two hearts, even when sadness has built walls.

We started talking more honestly after that. Sometimes the talks were heavy, and tears came. Other times, we laughed until we couldn’t breathe. We realized that love isn’t about avoiding fights or sadness. It’s about staying on the rollercoaster together, holding hands through both the screams and the laughter.

There were days we still struggled. But we made a rule: never go to bed without at least one laugh together. Sometimes it came naturally, like when I tried to cook dinner and ended up burning the rice so badly it looked like charcoal. Other times, we had to work for it—digging through old memories until we found something silly enough to break the tension.

Over time, I noticed something else. Every fight taught us something. We learned each other’s limits, fears, and needs. We learned that love is not just a feeling; it’s a skill. You have to practice it, like learning to play an instrument. Some days the music flows beautifully. Other days, you hit the wrong notes, but you keep playing because the song is worth it.

Now, when I look back, I don’t just remember the happy moments or the sad ones. I remember the mix—the way her laughter sometimes had tears in it, the way my frustration could turn into a joke in seconds. And I realize that’s the beauty of real relationships. They are never only sweet or only bitter. They are a combination, like tea with sugar and a pinch of lemon.

If I could give advice to anyone in love, it would be this: don’t run away from the hard parts. The sadness makes the laughter sweeter, and the laughter makes the sadness easier to carry. Love isn’t about perfection; it’s about choosing the same person, over and over, even on the days they eat your fries without asking.

And yes, I still steal her fries. But now, I make sure to order extra