Before her, the word "love" was a weapon. It was sharp, biting, and cruel—a word that didn't wrap itself in warmth but instead cut deep into my heart. I grew up believing love came with conditions. It came when it was convenient for others, never for me.
The shadows of my past follow me, whispering reminders of everything I endured. I can still hear the yelling from behind closed doors, the sound of things breaking, the heavy silence afterward that was worse than the noise. My father, in his rage, became the architect of my walls. He built them high, brick by brick, with every moment he wasn't there and every time he should have been but chose not to be.
I didn't know how to yearn for love—I only knew how to survive the lack of it. The absence of affection became a constant ache, one that shaped me in ways I didn't understand at the time. I sought love in all the wrong places, desperate to fill a void that seemed endless. But instead of finding comfort, I found more pain.
There was another relationship before her. One I don't like to speak of, but its weight still lingers on my soul. He said he loved me, but his love came with fists and harsh words. It came with manipulation disguised as affection, with apologies that meant nothing because the cycle would always repeat. I thought I could fix him, thought my love would be enough to heal him. Instead, I broke myself trying to hold together a man who thrived on breaking others.
The scars he left weren't just physical. They were invisible, etched into my mind, making me question my worth. I told myself love was supposed to hurt because that's all I had ever known. But she changed that for me.
She redefined love in a way I didn't think was possible. Her love didn't hurt—it healed. Her words didn't cut—they soothed. With her, love wasn't a battle to be fought but a safe place to rest. She held my hand as I confronted the shadows of my past, never rushing me, never demanding more than I could give.
She looked at me as though I was more than the sum of my pain, as though I was worthy of every ounce of tenderness she offered. And for the first time, I believed that maybe I was.
My father taught me to yearn for love, but she taught me how to receive it. She showed me that love doesn't have to come with conditions or fear. It can be patient and kind, steady even when the storms rage inside.
Still, the trauma lingers. There are days when the weight of it feels unbearable, when I wonder if I'll ever fully heal. But then she whispers to me, her voice like a balm on my soul, and I remember that I don't have to carry it alone.
Love, as she's taught me, is a process. It's a journey, not a destination. It's allowing myself to be vulnerable, to let her see the broken parts of me without fear of rejection. And with her, I've learned that even the most fractured heart can learn to beat again.
A poem for my heart
Before you, love was a storm,
A hurricane ripping through my soul.
It left me shattered, drowning,
Grasping at fragments of myself.
Before you, love was silence,
The absence of warmth,
The echo of words unsaid,
A hollow space where affection should have been.
But then you came—
Soft, steady, and sure.
You didn't try to fix me;
You simply stayed,
Holding my hand through the darkness.
With you, love is spring after winter,
A garden blooming where ash once lay.
It is the warmth of the sun on my skin,
The quiet promise of better days.
You redefined love for me,
Turned it into something gentle and safe.
And for that,
I will carry you in my heart, always.
YOU ARE READING
Two hearts on one journey 🫂🌎
Romance"Two Hearts, One Journey" is a personal, emotional story told from my perspective, exploring the highs and lows of my long-distance relationship. This book isn't a regular back-and-forth narrative-it's a love letter, raw and intimate, reflecting my...
