When Love Waits in Silence

We often dream of love as something that stays. Not the kind that sweeps in with fire and passion only to burn out in the afterglow, but the kind that leans into you, that becomes a part of your very being. I never wanted quick intimacy, fleeting moments wrapped in sugar and light. No, I imagined someone who would stay through the long, quiet days and the inevitable storms—someone who would hold on when everything else let go. It’s easy to fall in love when the sun is warm, when the days stretch out like a golden promise. But true love, I always believed, wasn’t about the honeymoon. It was about the moons farther away, those that hang low in the sky, casting shadows deeper and more mysterious than anyone cares to look.

We were told, weren’t we, that we were meant to find that someone? That they’d be the first person we’d turn to, our journal in human form, the keeper of every secret and every dream?

We were supposed to write our story across their heart, as if the days would move endlessly forward, unbroken, lasting as long as we did. But sometimes I wonder if I built all that out of nothing more than old movies and soft songs—things that feel real when you’re lost in the moment but disappear when the credits roll. Still, the thought of you and me, in a house with wide windows and a view of the world stretching out before us… that’s the kind of dream I could never let go of.

But reality is different, isn’t it? Some nights we don’t talk about the future, not because we don’t want to, but because we’re too tired of imagining what might be, when what is, is already too much. We find ourselves staying in, not out of comfort, but because it’s easier to hide from the world than to face the disappointments that come with it. There’s something strangely intimate about lying next to coffee cups left cold on the table, under dim lights that cast more shadow than warmth. But even the light of a candle is never quite enough, and sometimes it feels like we’re both waiting for something that never arrives.

I’ve always been drawn to the idea of permanence—long-term plans, promises whispered with conviction. But somewhere along the way, others told us it wasn’t so simple. You close your journal, tired, its pages now worn and blue from the weight of unspoken words. There are chapters you never finished, thoughts you never wrote down. And yet, the ink is still fresh enough to remind you of the distance, of the space between us that grows with every word left unsaid.

What’s your life’s language? How do you make sense of all this? You never quite managed, did you? You carry your tired eyes like scars, the bags beneath them heavy with more than just lack of sleep. You’ve been waiting, hoping for someone who would stay, someone who wouldn’t vanish with the daylight. But love has always been fleeting for you, like a change in the weather—something you can feel in the air but never quite hold onto.

Old stories on new roads, that’s what we are. Begging for a moment of peace, just a break from the relentless pace of life. You wonder if it’s too much to ask for someone to simply stay, to be there when the silence is louder than the storms. But deep down, you know, as I do, that love is never simple. It’s full of the things we don’t say, the promises we don’t keep, and the dreams we can’t quite let go of.

And yet, despite the heartache, the weariness, the unspoken fears, there is still a flicker of hope. A soft light in the distance, something that whispers, “Maybe, just maybe, it’s worth it.” Because love, for all its pain, for all its losses, has never stopped shining. Even in the darkest moments, there’s a part of you that still believes in that house with a view, in those distant moons that bloom quietly, waiting for someone to see them.

Yes, love can tear at the edges of your mind, unravel your peace. It can hurt in ways you never imagined. But even now, with all that weighs on us, I still love the idea of love. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going. Enough to hold onto, until someone finally stays.