Love, when it’s real, feels like breathing out

I used to think love was supposed to feel like falling.

Now I think it’s supposed to feel like arriving.

It’s not chaos, or sparks, or hunger—it’s stillness.

It’s being met.

Love, when it’s real, feels like breathing out.

It’s not perfect. It gets tired. It asks questions. But it never forgets to return.

I write these things not because I’ve mastered them—

I write them because I need the reminders, too.

And maybe, if you’re here, you do as well.