Love, in the Quiet Places

Love did not arrive loudly,

it entered like a habit,

slow, unnoticed,

until your name lived

between my breaths.

You were never the storm,

you were the calm after one,

the kind that teaches the heart

how silence can feel safe.

We built our love

out of ordinary moments,

shared coffee growing cold,

conversations that lasted longer

than the night itself.

I loved the way

you listened without fixing,

the way your presence

answered questions

I never learned how to ask.

But love, I learned,

is not always about staying.

Sometimes it is about knowing

when holding on

begins to hurt more than letting go.

We did not break.

We softened.

We changed shape.

Our goodbye was not dramatic,

no slammed doors,

no final words sharp enough

to cut memory.

Just two people realizing

that timing can be cruel

to even the truest affection.

Now, I love you differently.

I love you in the quiet places,

where memory no longer aches.

In songs that no longer hurt.

In smiles that arrive

without sadness following behind.

I love you without expectation,

without return,

without the weight of forever.

And maybe that is

the purest form of love

there is.

To care deeply,

and still let go gently.

If I ever loved you,

this is how I will remember it:

not as something I lost,

but as something

that made me human.

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### **Based on a Real Story**