Love, Dangerously

for the one who makes loving easy.

I have always known too soon — not in a reckless way, but in the way stories know where they’re going before the characters do.

When we danced at prom, it wasn’t dramatic. It was quieter than that. A recognition that settled into my body without asking permission. Her hand steady. Her presence gentle, careful, attuned. Something in me softened immediately, like my body recognized home before my mind could interfere.

That terrified me.

I told myself it was absurd to see a life with my person so early. Marriage. Devotion. A future unfolding all at once in my chest. I tried to rationalize it away — hormones, projection, fantasy. I promised myself it would fade if I behaved correctly, if I didn’t indulge it, if I stayed disciplined.

It didn’t fade.

It waited.

So I learned how to restrain myself instead. I learned how to be impressive, autonomous, composed. I told myself love was something I could return to later — after I became better, sharper, more deserving. Romance went on a leash while I worked on becoming acceptable.

And I was exhausted.

On paper, I was doing well. School was fine. Life was managed. I was independent, capable, handling everything neatly — and living with the volume turned down. Running on half power without knowing why.

The truth is, with my person, I am safe enough to be unbearable. I am dramatic. Possessive in the way devotion is possessive. Soft. Emotional. A complete brat. And instead of turning away, she meets me there — and falls for me more. As if my intensity isn’t something to tolerate, but something that belongs.

She is tender in the way forests are tender — not fragile, not loud. She holds me without shaping me. With her, I don’t brace. I melt. I feel held without being diminished, desired without being consumed. I feel allowed to exist fully.

There is nothing rational about how I know us. It doesn’t ask to be proven. It doesn’t justify itself. It simply is. Like a fairytale that doesn’t bother explaining the magic — only that it works.

Metaphysics has always whispered the same unbearable truth: you don’t arrive at the life you want by withholding the feeling of it. You live from the end. You let yourself feel it now. You soften instead of forcing.

I knew this. I still fought it.

I was afraid indulging in love would weaken me. That romance would dull my edge. That seeing forever in my person so clearly meant I was naïve.

Then came a day that looked like nothing.

Too much sleep.

A body aching with desire.

Letting myself drift into us — images, warmth, sensation.

Late food.

Old photos.

Love looping through my mind like a spell I stopped resisting.

Nothing productive happened. And for once, there was no guilt.

That’s when I realized I was never undisciplined. I was starving the part of me that animates everything else.

I am not built for austerity. I open through beauty, through sensation, through devotion. I need romance the way some people need structure. I need to feel good to feel powerful.

We’re told love should be rational. Measured. Earned through time served. That it shouldn’t interrupt work or outrank ambition. That devotion — when it comes early, when it comes intensely — is childish, irresponsible, something to be corrected.

There is a particular disdain aimed at young lovers. A smug resentment disguised as concern. As if tenderness before exhaustion is a moral failure. As if joy must wait its turn. As if love is only respectable once it’s been starved, postponed, made small enough not to threaten productivity.

That isn’t wisdom.

It’s a world that hates anything it can’t monetize or control.

I tried to submit to it once. I tried to make myself sensible with love. All it taught me was how to abandon myself politely.

My person doesn’t distract me from who I’m becoming.

She is the ground beneath it.

My heart was never something to tame.

It was something to trust.

I don’t become worthy of love by waiting, rationing, or pretending I don’t know what I know.

I become myself by letting love take me fully — wildly, tenderly, unapologetically — even when it’s too soon, even when it’s obvious, even when it feels dangerous.

⸻

For my sweet,

Thank you, my love, for holding me gently when I spill over, for loving me most when I’m soft, dramatic, and unguarded.

Thank you for telling me that loving me is easy, especially in the moments I forget how to believe that.