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I used to think love had to be loud. That it needed to be this whirlwind of passion — grand gestures under city lights, spontaneous kisses in the rain, intense declarations that left you breathless. I craved the chaos of it, the cinematic kind of love that made you feel like your heart might burst from your chest. For a while, I mistook adrenaline for connection. I thought if it didn’t shake me to the core, it wasn’t real.

But somewhere along the way, love started looking different. It showed up not with fireworks, but with quiet, consistent care. It was him remembering how I take my coffee — just the right amount of cream, no sugar. It was the way he listened, really listened, to things I didn’t even know I needed to say. It was Sunday mornings in sweatpants, sharing silence and warmth, without needing to fill the air with conversation. No performance. Just presence.

I started to notice that the most meaningful kind of love doesn’t always announce itself. It doesn’t demand the spotlight. It exists in the ordinary — in the grocery runs, the midweek check-ins, the sleepy “drive safe” texts. It’s not made of sparks; it’s built in layers — trust, patience, small acts of kindness repeated over time. It doesn’t sweep you off your feet. It grounds you.

The truth is, real love isn’t always about dramatic moments. It’s about choosing someone, not once, but over and over — on the hard days, the boring days, the days when you’re tired or moody or distracted. It’s about holding space for one another, growing side by side, and loving not just the best parts, but all the messy, human parts too.

So now, I don’t chase the storm. I look for the quiet places where love lives — in consistency, in care, in calm. Because I’ve learned that while passion can start a fire, it’s the gentle, steady flame that keeps it burning.