At some point, it becomes evident that all stories are just love stories in waiting. Anything can be an open love letter when you just “put it out there”. I didn’t make these rules, but I am bound to them all the same. It’s like discovering how gravity works in your 30s. I mistakenly took cynicism as wisdom for over a decade. Cynicism is just a fear that says your joy means less of it for me; as if love were a pie, money, or fossil fuel dug and pumped from the earth - gone when it’s gone. Which just isn’t true. Our hearts are not finite resources. Not something on a platter waiting to go bad. Not something to be locked away with a safe interest rate that we cash in on later. I think there’s more warmth in making someone a cup of tea than there is in sending a sext. I believe there’s magic in showing up unannounced with groceries and doing the dishes. It’s how we light up the edges, fractures, and wrinkles. Tenderness is in the hands that we hold up or reach out with. Gentleness is always interlinked with understanding, surrender, and possibilities. I’m not sure which one is the prerequisite. All I know is I want my heart to leak the right stuff so much that you can smell it from the highway.