What The Movies Never Told Us

They said love would be hard.
Screaming-in-the-rain kind of love.
Doors slamming, hearts breaking,
chasing someone through crowded streets
because that’s what makes it real.
That’s what makes it worth it.

But then—
there was us.

And you didn’t arrive
with thunder
or wildfire.
You came like water—
clear,
cool,
inviting.

We began slow.
Toes first.
Testing the quiet.
Then a step.
And another.
Each one deeper
until we were waist-high in wonder,
surrounded by something
soft and shimmering.

No crashing waves.
No pull of riptide.
No drowning.

Just ripples.
Tiny ones.
Made by laughter,
by fingertips brushing under the surface,
by the whisper of your hand in mine
as we waded further in.

They never tell you
that love can feel like this—
a lake in summer,
all stillness and sky.
Relief so gentle
you don’t even realize
how long you’ve been tense
until you finally float.

This is what they never showed us—
a love that doesn’t try to consume you,
but welcomes you in.
Not as rescue.
Not as fanfare.
But as ease-as comfort.

And I would choose this
again and again—
the calm,
the cool,
the magic beneath the surface.

You and me,
suspended in something
that asks for nothing
but our bare feet
and our willingness
to stay.