The Distance Love Learns

I've always wondered how we tell people our boundaries
without risking their own.

When two hearts are hurting to feel each other,
when mistakes were made
in moments of doubt and anger,
and rebuilding trust takes time,
what does it take?

How much are we willing to go?

For love,
for us?

Perhaps love is not measured
by how loudly we fight to stay,
but by how gently we learn to stop hurting
the hands we long to hold.

Perhaps boundaries
are not walls built to keep each other out,
but quiet promises that say,
"This is where my heart remains safe enough to love you."

Trust does not return all at once.
It arrives in ordinary moments,
kept words, softened voices,
the courage to apologize,
and the patience to believe tomorrow
can be kinder than yesterday.

So maybe the question isn't
how far we are willing to go.

Maybe it's how deeply
we are willing to grow.

Because love is not choosing each other once.
It is choosing each other again
after the storm,
after the silence,
after the fear,

with open hands,
honest hearts,
and the quiet hope
that what we rebuild together
will be stronger
than what we almost lost.

11:11