Love does not always sound like a confession. Sometimes it comes without words. Through a cup of coffee placed next to the bed. Through a look that catches you in the mirror when you absentmindedly fix your hair. Through the warm air under the blanket and a heavy hand lowered to your stomach when you just lie next to each other.

Love feels... like morning. When you are still between sleep and awakening, but already smiling - although you do not remember why. As if somewhere in the body there is warmth that does not go away even in the most dank winter. It is not a flame, not a fire. Rather, like a slowly warming sun. You don't feel it right away, but it makes everything different.

I tried to explain to myself: what is love? It's when you're not afraid to be yourself. When you don't have to hold your stomach in, when you can say something stupid and not be afraid that they'll stop loving you. It's when someone remembers how you drink tea and puts two pieces of lemon on the tray, even if they're in a hurry.

Love isn't always in a passionate look. Sometimes it's in silence. In those minutes when you walk down the street and no one speaks, but it's calm next to you. You don't have to prove anything. Just step by step - and there's a whole world. Cozy, like your sweater. Familiar, like the smell on the back of your neck.

When I first felt that I loved, it was strange. I watched a man peel an orange. And I got goosebumps. Not because he was handsome. But because his fingers felt like family. Because I suddenly realized: if he leaves, I won’t just be sad — I’ll be physically cold.

Love is felt in the body — that’s true. Like a slight vibration under the skin when you’re waiting for a text message. Like a sinking feeling somewhere in the stomach when you hear a familiar voice in a crowd. Like a tremor in your hands when you touch his face for the first time — and you can’t remember how it’s made. Because you’re not touching with your eyes.

But not everything is always smooth. Sometimes love hurts. Not loudly. Just like something aches under your ribs. When you miss someone, even if the person is nearby. When you want to be heard, but you don’t know how to explain it. When you’re sitting in the bathroom, bending your knees — and you catch yourself thinking that love is sometimes like waiting.

And still… it’s worth it. Because only in love do you become soft. Not weak — but real. When you can cry and not apologize. When you can laugh until you hiccup. When you can press your cheek to your neck and not think about how you look from the outside. Because inside is home.

Love is when the heart doesn't beat louder, but just beats correctly. Doesn't break into anxiety. Doesn't jump, like before an exam. But just works - as if this is what it was created for.

And even if it all ends someday - it will remain. In the smell of a sweater. In the memory of how someone held your hand. In the habit of closing your eyes and imagining how someone strokes your back, slowly.

I think love is not a peak feeling. It is not a peak. It is a rhythm. The background music of your days. Which makes the ordinary - a miracle.