Just love, again and again.
We think it has to be big.
A breakthrough. A lightning bolt. A dramatic tear-streaked vow.
But the truth?
Love rarely looks like a scene from the movies.
It's smaller. Truer. Quieter.
It's the text you send—or don't.
The boundary you keep—or open with love.
The inhale you take before reacting.
The exhale you release before acting.
The dirty chai with extra foam, placed gently beside someone you love, without saying a word.
It's how you stay with yourself in moments when you used to disappear.
How you soften, not because you've finally won—
but because you're finally strong enough to lead with care.
In a world that's getting more complicated by the nanosecond,
this kind of love is radical.
Simple. Sacred. Unmistakably human.
There's no grand gesture.
Just a thousand tiny ones
that say: I'm here. I'm real. I choose love. Again and again.
You first.
And then again.
And again.
