A Love Like Spring

There is a love that arrives like spring—soft yet certain, quiet but unstoppable. It does not demand to be noticed, yet its presence is undeniable. It unfolds like petals beneath the sun, stretching toward warmth, toward life.

When I first met him, I did not know that love could feel this way. I had always thought love was supposed to be loud, overwhelming, an explosion that leaves you breathless. But he was nothing like that. He was steady, like the changing of the seasons, like the first signs of spring after a long winter.

He came into my life gently, his presence settling into the corners of my world like sunlight spilling through the cracks of a window. There was no grand beginning, no dramatic entrance—just the quiet realization that my heart was waking up, just as the earth awakens to spring.

I remember the way he looked at me, as if I were something worth waiting for. As if I were something to be understood, not just admired. And for the first time, I realized that love is not about being dazzled—it is about being known.

With him, love is a slow bloom, a process of growth and renewal. It is learning to trust the warmth after too many cold seasons. It is allowing myself to believe in something soft and beautiful, even when the past has left me wary of joy.

I have spent so much of my life preparing for storms that I never thought to prepare for spring. I did not think I would find someone who could be gentle with my scars, who would not rush my healing. But he is patient, always, always patient.

He does not try to fix me. He does not try to make me something I am not. He simply stays, tending to me like a gardener with quiet hands and a steadfast heart, believing that in time, I will learn to trust the sun again.

There are days when I am still winter. Days when I pull away, when the cold threatens to take me back. But he never forces me into the light. He waits, knowing that I will find my way, knowing that spring always comes back, even when it feels impossibly far away.

Love, with him, is not about grand gestures or stolen breaths. It is about the way he remembers the little things—the way I take my coffee, the songs that make me cry, the fears I am too afraid to say out loud. It is about how he listens, truly listens, as if every word matters.

He holds my hand like a promise, like a prayer. Like he knows that love is not just about passion—it is about presence. It is about showing up, every single day, even when it is not easy. Even when the world is cold and unkind.

With him, I have learned that love is not just something that happens to you. It is something you choose, something you nurture. It is work, it is effort, it is showing up for someone even when the world makes you want to disappear.

He loves me in a way that makes me want to stay. In a way that makes me believe in something more. And for someone who has always feared the fleeting nature of things, that is the most beautiful gift of all.

He is my spring. My gentle beginning, my quiet hope. He is the proof that love does not have to be overwhelming to be real. That sometimes, the softest things are the most enduring.

I do not know what the future holds. I do not know how many seasons we will weather together. But I do know this: no matter how cold the world gets, no matter how harsh the winters may be, I will always find my way back to him.

Because love, real love, is like spring. It returns. It renews. It stays.

And he, he is my love like spring.