when love learns your silence

to be loved is not just to be seen in the light—it is to be held in the dark, when your voice has gone quiet, when your laughter has dimmed into something small and trembling, when your body hums with exhaustion that no one else can hear. it is being noticed without performing, understood without having to explain, and held without needing to earn the softness. it is someone who meets you where your silence begins, who does not ask you to rise before you’re ready, who senses the shift in your spirit and chooses to stay anyway.

to be loved is to be met by someone who doesn’t flinch at your stillness, who stands beside the storm in you and does not reach for control. it’s someone who knows your quiet isn’t distance—it’s survival. it’s someone who doesn’t try to fill the silence, but instead breathes with you through it, matching their heartbeat to yours until you remember your own rhythm again. it’s someone who whispers, i know you’re still here, and waits, patient and tender, while you remember how to come back to yourself.

real love doesn’t get angry when you disappear for a while. it doesn’t demand explanations or punish your stillness. it sits beside your ache, holds space for your shaking hands, and reminds you that you are not hard to love just because you go quiet. it is someone who stays close without suffocating you, who knows when to touch and when to simply be present. it’s someone who sees the flicker of your pain and doesn’t try to fix it—only honors it.

to be loved is to be seen in all your contradictions—the softness and the storm, the flame and the ash, the calm after chaos and the chaos before calm. it is being allowed to be messy, wild, and human, to fall apart without losing your worth. it is being held by someone who does not need you to be easy, who does not shrink from the sharp edges of your truth. it is someone who knows that love is not only found in laughter, but in the silence between sobs.

real love lives in the small gestures—the hand brushing against yours when words feel too heavy, the soft glance that says i see you, the way they bring you tea without asking, the way they leave space for your healing without keeping score. it’s someone who doesn’t need to be told what you need—they’ve learned to listen beyond sound.

to be loved is to be reminded—again and again—that you are not fading, you are resting. you are not broken, you are blooming differently. you are not too quiet, too sensitive, or too hard to hold. you are the soft sound of survival. you are the ache that learned how to hum again. you are the proof that even silence can be sacred, and even stillness can be love.

with ink + bloom, 🌻