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For most of my younger years, my idea of love was grand, monumental and all-consuming. I’m starting to think that the reason for that was because I only based it on all the movies I have watched and all the books I have read. And in those stories, they rarely ever catch the part of the love that really matters. The quiet and average parts. The ordinary days.

Growing up, I always thought true love was bouquets of red roses, dates on Friday nights, little black box that held expensive things, and always knowing what to say, what to do. I thought true love was a kiss in the midst of the rain, deep anecdotes, and the perfect moment. But now that I’m older, I’ve realized it’s not like that at all.

See, because true love for me is ugly Viber chats, and peeing while you’re on the phone. True love is kissing at 6AM despite the morning breath, it’s running on a Sunday despite the temptation from your comfortable bed, it’s singing at the top of your lungs in spite of the wrong tune. It’s saying all the wrong stuff, at all the wrong moments. It’s sarcasm and being honest even when it hurts. It’s late hours of the night when it’s been a long week, it’s sharing a beer and it’s no make up and bad hair. It’s tears from laughter, it’s tears from fights and it’s nothing like any love storybook you’ve ever read.

It’s never running out of things to discuss and to argue about, and it’s being comfortable in the silence of things. True love is watching How To Get Away With Murder though you swore you never would. It’s getting mad over petite things. It’s “run a little faster,” and “you’re late again” and knowing you’re so lucky to hear those every day. It’s spilling your feelings at 2AM when you should be asleep. It’s that old Sinatra song you hear on the radio that always makes you smile. It’s the worst story you could ever imagine, but thank God it worked out anyways. True love is never giving up on the magic. True love is not leaving when things get hard.

I prefer my definition better anyways.