Writing about love when you’ve never really experienced it feels a lot like a rookie locomotive driver attempting to describe his first flight—completely clueless, utterly unqualified, and yet here I am, brimming with audacity.
Love is such an enigma, isn’t it? You grow up hearing whispers of it in lullabies, seeing fragments of it in parents’ smiles, watching Hollywood blow it out of proportion, like it’s the answer to the universe. And yet, when you sit down to truly reflect on it, it’s the one thing nobody can fully explain. It’s not a science experiment that’s full of clear variables or a math equation begging to be solved. It’s more like trying to bottle the ocean—impossible to grasp entirely, but mesmerizing to try.
Living your life is simple enough. The world spins, seasons change, and time marches on with cruel indifference. And then, one day, someone walks into your life—no slow buildup, no warning—and suddenly, the mundane feels monumental. It’s not that your world stops turning; it’s that their presence rewrites your axis. You realize what it feels like to long for someone, not desperately, but in a way that makes their absence feel still, distorting everything else.
Love isn’t just a feeling; it’s a collection of moments.
Sitting under a tree, their head resting on your lap. The world around you could very well be ablaze, but you wouldn’t notice. Their eyelashes catch specks of sunlight filtering through the branches, and you wonder how something so simple can feel so profound. It’s not fireworks or violins; it’s quieter—steady, like the heartbeat you notice when your hand brushes theirs.
And you find yourself staring—not in a creepy way, of course (or so you hope)—but because there’s something about their face, so peaceful, so entirely at ease, that makes you want to commit every detail to memory. The curve of their lips, the way their hair falls across their forehead, the sound of their breathing—it’s ridiculous, honestly. Yet you sit there like a complete idiot, grinning to yourself, wondering how you ever existed without this moment.
And when they stir, just barely, their eyes half-open, meeting yours with that half-asleep, trusting look—it hits you. Not like a lightning bolt, but like a warm wave that spreads through your chest and settles there, refusing to leave. It’s not the kind of moment you can explain to anyone without sounding like a complete lunatic, but in their gaze, there’s this unspoken understanding: this is home. Not a place, not a thing—just this.
And here’s the thing—love isn’t flashy. It doesn’t always need grand gestures or poetic confessions. Sometimes, love is staring at someone while they sleep, in awe of how peaceful they look. It’s staying up late not because you’re obligated but because their silence feels more comforting than any words ever could.
It’s not about fixing someone but standing with them and saying, “You’re enough, just like this.”
Love isn’t just a feeling you know; it’s a collection of moments. It’s layered, like your favorite novel that reveals something new with every re-read. It’s that fleeting look someone gives, soft and unguarded, as though they’re gazing at their favorite story and forgot they’re in public. It’s the warmth that creeps into their voice when they speak your name—subtle but unmistakable, like a secret only they know.
How they look at you like you’re not just part of their world but the part that makes it spin.
For me, love is warmth. Not just the kind that wraps around you like a blanket, but the kind that seeps into your bones and anchors you. It’s in the way they remind you to “take care,” not with words but with actions—the quiet sacrifices, the small gestures that scream, you matter. It’s how they look at you like you’re not just a part of their world but the part that makes it spin.
And love, in its rawest form, is imperfect. It doesn’t demand perfection because it knows how absurdly human we all are. It’s the cracks in your walls and the dents in your armor that make you whole, and love? It thrives in those imperfections. It’s not about fixing someone but standing with them and saying, “You’re enough, just like this.”
In a world that never stops moving, love is the pause, the inhale, the grounding force that reminds you what it means to be alive.
Love is finding a home in someone else. It’s not a physical place but a feeling—a steady, unshakable warmth in the middle of life’s chaos. It’s not just safety but belonging, the kind where their arms are both a fortress and a soft place to land. It’s messy and complicated, sure, but it’s also undeniably, unrelentingly worth it.
Because in a world that never stops moving, love is the pause, the inhale, the grounding force that reminds you what it means to be alive. It’s a million little moments that somehow feel infinite—a feeling that, even in its simplest forms, makes life feel extraordinary.
So yeah, that’s love. Perfect in its imperfection—keep the people, or at least the moments—that are meant to stay with you.
Heart all aflame? Meet me on Her Campus at MUJ—I’ll keep the fire going.