Love is no soft promise.
It is a blade that cuts both ways—sharp enough to sever illusions, deep enough to carve space for truth.
Your soulmate does not arrive to complete your half-finished story.
He is the one who stands in the wreckage of your most honest self,
sees the scars you hide even from mirrors,
and refuses to look away.
Not out of pity.
Out of recognition.
He stays through the long dry seasons when affection feels like memory,
through nights when anger speaks louder than tenderness,
through mornings when grief sits heavy at the breakfast table.
Love measured only in sunlight is no love at all.
Real love proves itself in darkness.
It is ruthless in its honesty:
“I see every fracture and I still choose you.”
It is patient in its endurance:
“I will wait while you remember how to breathe again.”
It is fierce in its loyalty:
“No storm will make me leave this ground we stand on together.”
Cherish such a meeting.
It is rarer than desert rain.
Do not waste it on smallness—
on score-keeping, on silences that punish, on love withheld as weapon.
Pour gratitude like water on parched earth.
A glance that says “I see you.”
A hand held without demand.
A quiet “thank you” spoken into the dark when no one else is listening.
Two souls who speak the same scarred language do not need grand gestures.
They need only this:
to keep choosing each other
when every easier path glitters nearby.
In that stubborn, daily choosing
lies the closest thing we have to eternity.
Not because it lasts forever—
but because, for as long as it burns,
it feels like forever was always waiting inside the ordinary hours.
That is the only miracle worth naming.
Unknown
