Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

I keep meeting you.
In moments.
In pauses.

The first time I remember meeting you was when I flew into Cape Town for the first time.
I could smell you before I saw you.
Salty. Fishy. Fresh.
Powerful, calm, dangerous, unpredictable.
Endless.

You taught me that some things are not meant to be contained.

I met you again one night when we went out.
You surrounded me,
rocked with me,
And we danced in the middle of the room.
I was crying,
But you stayed.

You reminded me
that it’s okay to dance through it,
to cry
and move at the same time.

Another time,
I met you in a small town an hour away from home.
I was alone in a room on my birthday.
You didn’t know me,
But you sat with me anyway.
You sang to me.
You wrapped me in love I didn’t ask for,

and reminded me that I was not alone.

Then there was the night I met you through sound.
Front row.
A saxophone breathing its truth.
Beautiful. Chaotic. Soft. Loud.

Oh, lover,
the way you sounded.

You taught me that beautiful things don’t have to be perfect.
They don’t have to be whole.
They can simply be what they are
and let that be enough.

Oftentimes,
I meet you in stillness.
Wednesdays at 3 a.m.
Sunday afternoons at 3 p.m.
In the quiet pauses where nothing is asking anything of me.

That’s where you remind me
that my presence is enough.
No people.
No music.
Just me.
Just you.

And some days,
We walk.
We debate with smiles.
Children play somewhere nearby.
At a restaurant overlooking the ocean,
While the sunlight dances on the surface like it knows my name.

And at eight in the summer evening,
after lighting up the world all day,
You begin to rest.
You don’t fall.
You soften.

You remind me that it’s okay to rest,
and to try again tomorrow.
Because tomorrow,
I’ll meet you again at sunrise.

All this time,
I thought I was searching for you.
Looking intentionally.
As if love lived somewhere else,
as if I had to find it.

I didn’t realise you were already there.

You were by the ocean,
salty and endless,

teaching me that depth doesn’t need permission.

You were in rooms full of friends,
holding me while we danced,
letting me cry without asking me to stop.

You were in a small town pub,
in strangers’ voices singing me happy birthday,

reminding me that love can find you
even when you don’t know its name.

You were in the front row of a jazz show,
in the breath of a saxophone,
showing me that beauty doesn’t need to be perfect
to be true.

You were in stillness.
Alone at home.
Outside.
In the quiet hours where nothing was missing
And I was enough.

You were in sunsets,
teaching me how to rest.
And in sunrises,
promising me I could try again.

All this time,
I was searching everywhere for you.

Not knowing
You had always been here.

Not knowing
It’s always been you.