You don’t have to agree with me, but to me, love is a language you only learn when you are with someone. And sometimes, you learn it too late, or not in the same way they do. Not everyone understands love in the same language. Some of us are desperate to hear it said out loud, some are quietly waiting for presence that doesn’t leave, some are softened by small, almost invisible gestures that say “I noticed you,” and some are just trying to believe that staying, even on the hardest days, is its own kind of love. And we try. God, we try. We give love in the way we know how to give it, and we wait for it to be received the way we meant it. But it doesn’t always land there. Sometimes it falls into silence. Sometimes it gets lost in translation. Sometimes it sits right in front of someone’s heart and still doesn’t feel like love to them. To love someone is to learn the shape of their heart; while hoping they learn the shape of yours too. For love is not measured by how much we pour out of ourselves. It is measured by what reaches the other person, what actually stays inside them and makes them feel held. We can give everything we have. We can place entire skies into someone’s hands, offer them devotion that feels endless, and still somehow fail to touch the parts of them that were quietly waiting for something softer, something slower, something more familiar to their language of being loved. And sometimes, love was real all along. But two people kept missing each other anyway, speaking in languages their hearts had not yet learned to understand. M. | May 2026

You don’t have to agree with me, but to me, love is a language you only learn when you are with someone. And sometimes, you learn it too late, or not in the same way they do. Not everyone understands love in the same language. Some of us are desperate to hear it said out loud, some are quietly waiting for presence that doesn’t leave, some are softened by small, almost invisible gestures that say “I noticed you,” and some are just trying to believe that staying, even on the hardest days, is its own kind of love. And we try. God, we try. We give love in the way we know how to give it, and we wait for it to be received the way we meant it. But it doesn’t always land there. Sometimes it falls into silence. Sometimes it gets lost in translation. Sometimes it sits right in front of someone’s heart and still doesn’t feel like love to them. To love someone is to learn the shape of their heart; while hoping they learn the shape of yours too. For love is not measured by how much we pour out of ourselves. It is measured by what reaches the other person, what actually stays inside them and makes them feel held. We can give everything we have. We can place entire skies into someone’s hands, offer them devotion that feels endless, and still somehow fail to touch the parts of them that were quietly waiting for something softer, something slower, something more familiar to their language of being loved. And sometimes, love was real all along. But two people kept missing each other anyway, speaking in languages their hearts had not yet learned to understand. M. | May 2026

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