A thought about love that keeps walking with you, even while the dogs are barking
After twenty years, you’d think we’d run out of things to say.
You’d think the conversations would start to loop, or at least slow down.
But we still talk, constantly, about everything and nothing.
About clouds and code, about sandwiches and photography. About dreams, real ones and the kind you wake up from and try to explain with sleepy hands.
We still talk like we’re figuring each other out. And somehow, we are.
Because even after all this time, we’re not finished. Not with each other. Not with this life we keep building, piece by piece, between dogs barking and half-drunk mugs of tea on every surface.
The love never got loud. It just got deeper.
He’s not flashy. Never has been.
He works quietly in IT, solves puzzles I don’t even understand, then turns around and makes me laugh without even trying.
He takes walks like they’re rituals. Sees things most people would miss. A shadow, a crack in the wall, the way the light changes on an old tree.
And then he captures it, soft and simple. A quiet beauty, like him.
It’s the kind that moves like water, steady, always finding its way back, always flowing, even when the rest of the world feels loud and sharp and exhausting.
And I mean that literally.
We dance in the living room, with socks and dishes and pets weaving between our feet. We dance in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle. We dance when a song comes on that feels like us, and we both know, without saying a word, that we have to move.
We’re not always in sync, but we always come back to the rhythm.
It’s a small rebellion, really. Against time. Against stress. Against the idea that love fades into routine.
Ours never did.
It changed shape, sure. But it didn’t shrink.
I used to roll my eyes at words like soulmate.
Too much pressure. Too romantic. Too... something.
But then I met someone who felt like a soft landing. Who looked at me and understood more than I said.
Who didn’t fix me, but also didn’t flinch when I wasn’t at my best.
Who never asked me to be smaller, or quieter, or easier to handle.
So yes.
He is my soulmate.
Not because it’s perfect. But because we keep choosing each other. Over and over. Even when the day is long, the house is loud, and the dishwasher needs emptying.
So I’m wondering, as I watch him pour tea like it’s a love language and quietly scratch the dog’s ears with his foot while typing something brilliant I’ll never understand,
What if the real magic isn’t in falling in love, but in staying there, together, curious, kind, and still dancing, twenty years later?
Warm greetings from a still an in love every day mom
