Love is

Sometimes love is a quiet thing, like spending an afternoon together in a nook little cafe by the river. Each focusing on their own work, each sipping on their cup of coffee, and each talking to themselves inside their heads. Both would come up to the surface every now and then to test their own theories. A productive afternoon would pass by swiftly without plenty of words needed to be thrown about.

Sometimes love is very loud, deafening yet existing just a tone below screaming match and looks of distrust. It would appear as an underlying note during a fight, a loud hum that serves a reminder that there wouldn't even be harsh exchanges if not for love—that the synchronised shouts would never become a harmonisation had love never existed between both.

Sometimes love is a reluctant thing, not quick to forgive—or to forget for that matter—various mistakes that were made to and by each other. It can be patient to wait for the time when they could at least forgive the mistakes by not bringing it up during heated conversations.

Sometimes love is also a vengeful thing, wanting to get even after learning there is such thing as quid pro quo as a legal action. Yet, love could never survive this way, since love is immeasurable and could never exist as a currency between two people in which they could ask the other to do perform any tasks based on their current wants or needs.

Sometimes love is a worrywart, afraid of anything would come to harm the other, even when the source of distress comes directly from themselves. Eyes that would not dry up, lips that would not stop quiver, and heart that would not stop hammering unless the other could explicitly convince the other that they are absolutely fine. Questions would be raised to each other every waking hour, unless the other is there with them.

However, love is always kind. Always making sure it is enough to go on, not too much or too little. After all, love is inevitable.