Soft in the Ways That Matter

 There are so many things I never say out loud.

The long trips, the effort of showing up, the patience in understanding, the quiet adjustments made in between the chaos—none of it goes unnoticed. I see it. I feel it. I carry it with me, even in the moments I struggle to express it. Every little thing done for this relationship has been seen and has been acknowledged, even in my silence.

I’ve never really experienced this kind of love before. Not in the way I understand it now. Not in the way I’ve come to need it. This kind of love—steady, persistent, sometimes imperfect, unconventional—is the kind I didn’t even realize I was waiting for. It may not look like what the world expects love to be, but in it, I find something rare: I find myself. 

Because in you, I found someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t walk away when I’m angry, when I’m difficult, when I’m overwhelmed. Someone who catches me when everything inside me feels like it’s falling apart. And that kind of presence—it feels like family.

I learnt what family truly meant in one of the hardest moments of my life. When my mom died, it was just us. No one else. No extended hands, no comforting crowd—just me, my sister, and my father. We didn’t always get along. We fought, we disagreed, we created distance just to survive the heaviness. But we stayed. We accepted each other in our worst, in our most broken states. And that’s when I understood: family isn’t about perfection—it’s about staying, even when everything is ugly.

And somehow, I found that same kind of staying in you.

This—what we have—it’s real. It’s not always easy. In fact, it’s been heavy. This past year wasn’t light or simple; it was full of learning, unlearning, adjusting, and growing pains. We argued; we clashed, sometimes like kids trying to figure out emotions too big for us to carry. But even then, we kept choosing each other. Again and again.

And that choice—the quiet, continuous decision we make to choose each other—will never be something I take for granted.

I know I can be hard. My words can be sharp, my silence even sharper. I’ve spent so much of my life holding things in, suppressing what I feel just to keep the peace, just to survive in a world that already feels too loud. But I don’t want to be that person anymore—the one who keeps everything, who keeps love unspoken.

There are so many hurts I never showed, so many feelings I buried just to avoid conflict, just to keep things quiet. But love like this deserves honesty. It deserves to be felt fully, even when it’s messy, even when it’s uncomfortable.

And so here I am, trying—slowly—to be more open, more real, more present.

Because I am grateful. Truly, deeply grateful.

Even if I don’t always show it in the usual ways. Even if I seem nonchalant, distant, or quiet. My love just speaks a different language. It shows up in the way I stay, in the way I try, in the way I keep choosing even when it’s hard.

I may not always be soft with words, but I am soft in the ways I hold us together.

I may not always be openly sweet, but I am sweet in the way I remember, in the way I care, in the way I never stop believing in what we have.

And maybe that’s my version of being “mushy”—not in grand gestures or constant reassurances but in the quiet, steady ways I love you every day.

This love we have—it’s rare. It’s real. And despite everything, despite all the imperfections, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.