A new love

 All I ever knew about love was built on the little things sharing moments, making each other feel special, caring deeply, and obsessing over the smallest details. Love, to me, meant tying their shoelaces so they wouldn’t trip, dreaming of a life together, adding a heart to every love you text, and crafting bouquets not of flowers but of emotions. Love was loud, expressive, and undeniable.

But the love I received was different. He introduced me to a love that existed without constant reassurances, without sweet words or playful gestures. A love that did not thrive on attention, nor require grand displays of affection. It was a love that remained quiet, always receiving but never truly returning, a love where warmth was scarce, and yet, somehow, it still held me in place.

Yet, despite everything, I still love him in the only way I know how with presence, with depth, with a heart that doesn’t count what it gives. But sometimes, I wonder if love should feel this way like whispering into an empty room, like reaching out only to touch air. Maybe he loves me too, in his own distant way. Or maybe, I have simply learned to call the absence of love by its name.


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