When someone asks me about true love, I don’t speak of grand gestures, or hearts that beat louder in crowded rooms. I don’t talk about midnight dances or fingers intertwined like fate. I tell them about waiting. About the kind of love that sits in silence, writing poems for someone who may never read them. The kind that counts minutes like memories, and stares at a phone just to feel a little closer. I tell them about loving someone who never asked to be loved— and doing it anyway. Quietly. Endlessly. With a heart that whispered “maybe someday,” even when it knew “probably never.” That’s what love is to me. Not the having— but the staying. Even when it hurts.