They tell you love is beautiful,
that it glows like city lights on a quiet night,
that it feels like warm hands on cold skin,
like laughter spilling over candlelit dinners,
like the perfect fit of your fingers in theirs.
But they don’t tell you—
they don’t tell you—
that love is also a battlefield.
That some nights, it feels like you’re fighting ghosts,
like you’re shouting across an ocean,
like you’re reaching—
reaching—
but the distance only grows.
No one tells you about the storms.
The slammed doors and the words that cut too deep.
The silence heavy enough to crush ribs,
the way love—once weightless, once effortless—
can suddenly feel like something you have to hold up,
like something slipping through your fingers.
No one warns you that love—
real love—
is not always gentle.
That some days, it will test your patience,
your pride, your ability to stay
when every bone in your body
wants to run.
But listen.
Love is not just the storm.
Love is the shelter.
Love is not just the fire.
Love is the hands that gather water.
Love is not just the breaking.
Love is the mending—
the choosing, again and again, even when it’s hard.
Love is the hand that reaches for yours in the dark,
the whisper of “I’m sorry” in a voice that trembles,
the way two hearts find their way back
even after getting lost.
Love is not perfect.
It cracks.
It falters.
It aches.
But love stays.
Love stays.
Because real love—
the kind that fights, the kind that endures—
does not measure itself in easy days.
It is tested in the storms,
proven in the staying.
So when the thunder rolls in,
when the sky turns black,
when the walls feel too high
and the words too sharp,
hold on.
Hold on.
Because love is not just the sunshine.
It is the storm.
It is the wreckage.
But most of all—
it is the hands rebuilding.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And that—
that is what makes it real.
