Not the grand gesture,
not the fireworks in the sky,
not the roses lined in perfect rows.
Just this.
A quiet cup of tea
cooling beside an open sketchbook.
Light falling kindly across the page.
Your breath settling.
A smudge of charcoal.
A wash of colour.
A line that doesn’t need to be perfect
to be enough.
A smidgen of love
tucked into the corner of your day.
Folded between errands
and ordinary moments.
Love that says,
“I will sit with myself.”
“I will listen.”
“I will make something, even if it’s small.”
Because sometimes
the bravest kind of love
is not the loud kind.
It is the soft decision
to show up for your own becoming
again
and again
and again.
And that, dear heart,
is more than enough. 🕊️