It wasn’t the kind of love people write poems about. No grand confessions, no perfect timing, no “happily ever after” written in advance.
It was strange.
They met at the wrong time, in the middle of unfinished stories and unhealed hearts. Conversations started as jokes, turned into late-night talks, and somehow… into something neither of them could name.
They weren’t officially anything. Not lovers, not strangers either. Just two people who understood each other a little too well.
Some days they felt inseparable, like the world made sense only when they talked. Other days, distance crept in — silence replacing words, confusion replacing clarity.
It was messy. Uncertain. Beautiful in a way that hurt.
They never promised forever, yet leaving each other felt impossible. They never said “I love you,” but it lived quietly in everything they did — in the concern, in the waiting, in the way they always came back.
Maybe that’s what made it strange.
It didn’t fit into definitions. It didn’t follow rules.
But it was real.
And sometimes… the realest love stories are the ones that never quite make sense. ✨
