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I might not love him more than I have loved before. The intensity is quieter now, softer somehow. It does not arrive like a storm or consume me like a wildfire. It does not shake the ground beneath my feet or leave me breathless with longing. Instead, it feels like calm. It feels like being wanted. I do not love him with the same fierce certainty I once mistook for forever. I love him with all the pain I carry inside me, with all the broken things I have yet to mend, with the scars that still ache when touched and the walls that remain standing in forgotten corners of my soul. I do not love him with only the happy parts of me. I love him with the grief that still lingers. With the loneliness that learned how to survive. With the wounds that are still learning how to smile, even after years of being left thirsty for kindness. This is how I love him. For most of my life, I never truly felt as though I belonged in this world. Many people offered me a place to stay, a seat at their table, a corner where I could rest. They told me I belonged there with them. But belonging often came with conditions. It lasted only as long as I followed their path, spoke their language, or became the version of myself they preferred. The invitation was always waiting to be withdrawn. But he did not do that. He did not ask me to become smaller. He did not ask me to be easier to love. He did not ask me to leave pieces of myself at the door. Instead, he opened his arms like wings and drew me close. And when I stood there, uncertain and ready to leave before I could be left, he simply said, "Stay. We'll find our home together." And for the first time, home did not feel like a place I had to earn. It felt like someone choosing to keep a light on for me, even on the nights I could not find my own way back. M. | this is how I love him June 2026


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