It wasn’t some dramatic moment. No storm. No slammed doors. Just a Thursday evening in the kitchen.
He stood by the sink, rinsing a plate that had already been clean for a while. I was wiping down the counter, but mostly just pretending to look busy. The silence between us wasn’t angry; it was heavy. Like we both didn’t know what to say anymore.
I looked over at him, and for a second, I saw the boy inside the man, the one who’d been holding it together for far too long. Tired and worn down. Afraid to reach for me, in case I no longer reached back.
That’s the thing about relationships no one talks about. Sometimes, love isn’t loud. It’s not the stuff you see on social media.
Sometimes love looks like staying in the room when everything in you wants to leave. Sometimes it’s making a plate of food, even when you’re still hurting. Sometimes it’s folding their hoodie and setting it on the bed without a word, because you still want them to be warm even if you’re not okay.
That night, I didn’t say much. I just handed him a towel to dry the plate. Our fingers touched briefly. He didn’t look at me. But I felt the way his shoulders dropped just a little. The kind of softness that says, “Thank you for not giving up on me today.” Even though nothing off-putting happened that day.
Later, while brushing my teeth, I looked at my reflection and whispered something that didn’t need to be heard by anyone else.
“I will love you back to life. One day at a time.”
And I meant it. Not in some self-sacrificing way. Not in a way that says I’ll abandon myself to keep the peace. But in the kind of way where I still choose tenderness, even in the tension. Because the truth is, people don’t fall apart all at once. And they don’t come back all at once either.
You love them slowly. Through the quiet and the forgetful mornings and short tempers. Through the tired eyes and long silences. You love them through it, not by fixing it all, but by simply staying soft when the world keeps making them hard.
This isn’t a fairy tale kind of love. It’s real love.
It’s not always easy to love someone through their periods of shutdown.
But real love doesn’t always come wrapped in perfect timing or constant closeness. Sometimes it looks like showing up in small, steady ways, even when the connection feels quiet and subdued. You still cut the fruit. Still put the gas in the car. Still remember how he takes his coffee.
Not because you’re ignoring how distant he’s been, but because that’s the kind of love you carry.
You notice the tension and feel the silence, yes. But you don’t use it as a reason to harden. Instead, you soften, just enough to keep the door from closing all the way.
You let the mundane moments speak:
Here’s a warm meal.
Here’s your charger.
Here’s a towel I folded for you.
I’m still here.
That’s not a weakness. That’s not over-functioning. That’s love with muscle memory.
Love that knows it doesn’t have to perform to be real. Love that leaves the light on without needing to slam the door first.
It doesn’t mean you’re overextending. It means you’re choosing tenderness where it would be easier to retreat.
And that quiet choice?
That’s the healing and repair.
Beyond the ordinary
If you’re still here, and something about this hit home — I want you to know there’s a place for that.
I call it the Soul Seat, but really, it’s just time set aside for you. No pressure, no agenda — just space to say what’s real, even if you’re not sure how to say it yet. It’s not traditional therapy. It’s not coaching. It’s sitting down with someone who can feel exactly what’s underneath and help you finally put words to it. Sometimes it's about a relationship. Sometimes it’s something that’s been sitting in your chest for years.
If you’re carrying something heavy or even just confused, I can hold it with you. We’ll listen together.
(Sometimes you don’t need advice.
You just need someone who sees what’s going on beneath the surface.)