To love someone is not to fix them. It is not to talk nineteen to a dozen and recap every day. Every gossip, every meal, every moment. It is not about spaces. Not about shirts and dresses. It is not about Skype and Viber. It is not about gifts and flowers. It is not about check-ins and selfies. Not about 'aww's and 'baby's.
It is not about being perfectly synchronized.
It is about coming back after going grossly out of rhythm. It is about holding hands and jumping puddles on the rainy days. It is about cooking and burning the whole kitchen down, and then cleaning up the mess together. It is about bathing the dogs and painting the walls in the weekends. It is about enjoying roadside tea or any side tea as much as cheesecake and calamari in a star hotel.
It is about fighting. It is about hurt. It is about labour. It is about dirt. It is about distance. It is about war. But not for a second to feel that - it's the end of it all.
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