A Quiet Kind of Love

There is a quiet kind of love, the kind that doesn’t demand to be seen, the kind that settles into the spaces between moments, unnoticed but unwavering. It’s the love that makes me repeat a song a million times, not because the lyrics say exactly what I feel, but because they carry the same ache, the same longing, the same tenderness that I hold for you. It’s the love that lingers in the background, like the voice of my favorite artist—never overpowering, never demanding attention, just existing, just there.

That’s how I love you.

I don’t think you ever notice the way I love you. Maybe it’s not loud enough. Maybe it doesn’t scream for attention or carve its name into grand gestures. But it’s there. It’s in the way I remember the smallest details about you—the way your voice shifts ever so slightly when you're tired, the way your hands move when you're explaining something you care about, the exact shade your eyes turn when you’re lost in thought. It’s in the way I notice the little things that no one else does, in the way I hold onto pieces of you that even you might have forgotten.

And there are days, I’ll admit, when I am selfish. When I can’t help but hope that at 2 a.m., when the world is quiet and the weight of the day finally catches up to you, you’ll hear a song that belongs to us. That you’ll feel just a faint sting, a quiet ache—not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you of me. Just enough to make you pause, even for a second, and wonder if somewhere out there, I am thinking of you too.

Because I love you so well, I find you in places you’ve never been.

I find you in the silence between songs, in the spaces between conversations, in the pages of books you’ll never read but that somehow remind me of you. I find you in the way the wind moves through the trees, in the quiet hum of a city at night, in the scent of a season changing. You exist in the corner of my mind where your name is etched so deeply that no amount of time or distance could ever erase it.

I have spent nights staring at the ceiling, whispering your name into the silence, knowing it will never answer back. I have sat by windows, watching the rain fall, wondering if you are somewhere beneath the same sky, feeling even a fraction of what I feel. It is the kind of love that exists in the spaces between breaths, in the spaces between moments, in the spaces where words fail. A love that is quiet, but never absent.

Sometimes I wonder if you have ever noticed. If you have ever paused, mid-laugh, mid-thought, mid-sentence, and felt my love wrap around you, even for a moment. I wonder if you have ever looked up at the night sky and thought of me. If you have ever heard a song and felt something in your chest tighten, even if you couldn’t name what it was. I wonder if there are places in your world where my presence lingers, where my absence is felt like the ghost of a touch.

And yet, I do not ask for your love in return. That is the nature of quiet love—it does not beg, it does not demand, it does not plead to be chosen. It simply exists, steadfast and enduring, whether it is acknowledged or not. My love for you is not a storm, not a fire, not a spectacle. It is the warmth of the sun on a cold morning, the hush of waves kissing the shore, the scent of old books and familiar places. It is subtle, but it is everywhere.

Maybe, one day, you will hear a song and think of me. Maybe, one day, you will walk through a city and feel as though I am walking beside you. Maybe, one day, when the weight of the world feels too heavy, you will close your eyes and hear my voice in the quiet of your mind, reminding you that you are loved, deeply and endlessly.

And if that day never comes, if you never truly see the depth of what I have carried for you, that will be okay too. Because this love was never about being seen. It was never about being heard. It was only ever about loving you, in the only way I know how—quietly, gently, completely.

So I will continue to love you in the way that I always have. In the unnoticed glances, in the unspoken words, in the memories I have collected like fragile glass. I will love you in the quiet moments, in the stillness of the night, in the spaces where no one else sees.

Because even if you never do, even if this love remains unseen, unheard, unspoken—it will still be here. Quiet. Steady. Unyielding. And it will always, always belong to you.

Neta