Love, I learned, is the act of falling, over and over again, for the same person. Falling for them through the changes they needed to undergo to become the person they had buried beneath the façade and all the versions of themselves they had created just to belong. There are parts of us we learn to hide because they do not seem to fit into the world we have been given. We become familiar with a life that still feels strangely foreign, learning its language, its rules, its expectations, while quietly wondering where we are supposed to put the pieces of ourselves that seem so out of place. And then, somehow, you find your person. And you begin to realize that perhaps you were asking to fit into the wrong world, when all along, you were simply waiting to find a world where you did not have to. Because with them, the things you once thought were too much begin to feel ordinary. When you look at their world, you recognize pieces of your own. You show them the things you thought no one would understand, and somehow, they already do. As though they have been holding space for you without even knowing your name. And maybe that is one of the strangest, gentlest things about love. You do not always find someone who completes your world. Sometimes, you find someone who has been unknowingly making room for you in theirs, long before either of you knew you would meet. Perhaps love was never meant to offer certainty. It was always an invitation to the unpredictable, a door opening into a life neither of you could fully see yet. Perhaps love is not a promise that we will never be lonely or hurt again. And perhaps that is why it asks us to be brave. Because you will keep changing. So will they. And you will have to meet each other again and again, in every new version, learning each other, making room, and falling all over again. Together. M.