Jan 13- A Love Letter, Continued

Jan 13, 2026

If my first entry of the year was a love letter to myself—written with honesty, boundaries, and quiet resolve—then today feels like the next page, written not in ink, but across a dinner table, under warm lights, with you sitting right in front of me.

Today was your birthday. We didn’t celebrate it loudly. There were no crowds, no grand gestures, no urgency to make it look like something more than what it was. Just the two of us. And somehow, that made it feel fuller. This entry, like the one before it, is about choosing presence over performance. About learning that love doesn’t always announce itself—it often whispers.

I watched you read the menu with that familiar seriousness, the kind that makes me smile quietly because it says so much about who you are. Thoughtful. Steady. Unrushed. In that small moment, I realised how much I’ve grown to love the calm you bring into my life. How different this love feels—

not loud, not demanding, but certain. Safe in a way that doesn’t cage, but holds.

There was a candle on your dessert. A simple one. You made a wish, and I didn’t ask what it was. Some wishes are meant to stay sacred. As you leaned in to blow it out, I felt that quiet gratitude settle in—the kind that doesn’t need to be shared aloud. The kind that simply exists. Birthdays, I’m learning, are no longer about being celebrated. They’re about being witnessed. About who stays. About who chooses you on ordinary days.

This entry is also a reflection of how love has changed for me. Once, I thought love had to be loud to be real. That it needed proof, reassurance, and constant affirmation. But sitting across from you today, I understood something gentler and truer: love can be soft and still be solid. It can be simple and still be profound. It can look like shared food, unspoken understanding, and a table for two where nothing feels missing.

If January 1 was me promising to choose myself more deliberately, then today is me recognising the kind of love I now allow into my life. The kind that doesn’t compete with my peace. The kind that fits into the life I’m building rather than disrupting it. This isn’t a dramatic love letter. It’s a quiet one. Written in pauses. In glances. In the comfort of not needing to be more than we already are.

So here’s this entry—another love letter. Not just to you, but to the life I’m learning to choose. One calm dinner at a time. One honest moment at a time.