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There was a time when I believed love should feel the same if it was real. That if it ever softened, became less intense, or stopped looking the way it once did, then something must have been lost along the way. I measured love against its former versions, comparing what was to what is, wondering why it no longer arrived with the same certainty. But perhaps that is the misunderstanding. People think love is supposed to remain the same if it is real. But nothing that lives remain unchanged. Not the seasons. Not the oceans. Not the people who stand beside each other year after year. You could never love the same way twice, not even with the same person. The version of me that loved yesterday is gone now. She left pieces of herself in old conversations, old disappointments, old hopes that never came to pass. And the version of you that receives my love today is not the same person you were either. So of course, the love is different. How could it not be? Love does not stay alive by remaining the same. It stays alive by becoming something new each time we meet each other again. And sometimes, loving well is simply allowing that becoming to happen in its own time. M. | June 2026


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