People have it all wrong. Books have it all wrong. The expectations are all wrong. Love is not a feeling of these insane highs and happiness beyond belief. What goes up must come down and I don’t think people realize that when they’re 10 feet above the clouds. There are gonna be valleys after your peaks and they feel much less than love. Love is more of a constant thing. Its comfort. It feels like pajamas and hot baths and your mom’s homemade mac and cheese. It’s a security blanket to hide under when the whole world is falling apart behind your eyes. It’s simple and warm and strong and every beautiful word under the sun and maybe even above it. Who knows? All I know is that I’m content with our ant hills of highs and our cracks in the side walk of lows and the smooth lines that walk between. I am comfortable in this constant love.