Romance in Reality

Romance in Reality

Love is not always roses,

not candlelit tables

or violins playing somewhere unseen.

It is softer than that,

quieter than that,

and somehow, deeper.

It is the coffee left by your bedside,

two sugars, no cream

not because anyone said it,

but because someone watched,

and remembered.

It is the text on a gray afternoon:

*Home soon. Should I bring dinner?*

An ordinary question,

that really means,

*You matter. I am thinking of you.*

Love lives in blankets

tucked around shoulders

when sleep arrives too early.

It flickers in the bathroom light

left glowing for a late return,

so the house never greets you dark.

It lingers in laughter

over something so small

no one else would understand

a language spoken only by two.

Romance is not found

only on anniversaries,

nor in the fireworks of celebration.

It thrives on a Tuesday evening

garlic in the pan,

pasta simmering on the stove,

one voice humming in the hallway,

dishes clattering in the sink,

shadows dancing across the walls.

Nothing about it cinematic,

yet everything about it unforgettable.

But love is not always gentle.

It has sharp edges too.

It argues. It slams doors.

It grows silent,

and silence can sting.

Yet romance is there too,

in the turning back,

in the softened voice,

in the apology whispered

into the waiting air.

It is the hand that reaches,

even when pride says not to.

It is the words,

*let’s try again.*

Sometimes forgiveness

is the most romantic act of all.

And love changes with time.

At first, it is sparks

reckless, urgent, alive.

But years write poems

into skin and hair.

Wrinkles become love letters,

penned by laughter,

by long nights,

by burdens carried together.

Gray becomes a crown

earned by storms survived

side by side.

To grow old with someone

is to say:

*I saw every version of you,

and I loved them all.*

What grander romance

could there ever be?

At its core, love is not spectacle.

It is not staged or rehearsed.

It feels like home.

It is the steady flame,

not the sudden spark.

It is walking through the door,

tired and worn,

and finding peace in another’s presence.

Romance is a thousand tiny moments

shared meals,

quiet laughter,

the slow intertwining of lives.

They seem unremarkable

until you look back

and realize they were everything.

Love does not need roses.

It does not need a stage.

It only needs two hearts,

choosing each other,

again and again,

every single day.

That is romance in reality.

That is love—

ordinary,

and yet extraordinary.