Love, Written in Quiet Things

Love did not arrive like thunder.

It came the way morning does—

slow, unsure,

touching the edges of everything

before it touched me.

It was in the way your name

felt lighter in my mouth

than other words.

In how silence between us

never asked to be filled.

We loved in ordinary moments:

shared cups, half-finished sentences,

the soft truce of two shadows

leaning against the same wall at dusk.

No grand promises—

only staying when leaving

would have been easier.

Love learned my fractures

and did not try to fix them.

It rested there,

like rain choosing the cracks in earth

not to break it,

but to help something grow.

Some days, love was laughter—

reckless, loud, unafraid.

Other days, it was patience,

waiting through storms

with hands steady enough

to hold the sky together.

If love ever left,

it did not take everything.

It left me knowing

that hearts are not weak

for opening—

they are brave for surviving

what opening costs.

And even now,

when the world feels sharp and hurried,

I still believe in love

that speaks softly,

stays honestly,

and chooses again—

not because it must,

but because it wants to.

Because love, at its truest,

is not loud enough to trend—

but deep enough to last.