There are many kinds of love in this world—the kind that burns fast and fades, the kind that's loud but shallow, and then there's the kind that feels like home. Zeon and I had found the last one.
It was in the way we started talking more about what 'home' meant—not just a place, but a feeling. A space where our hearts could rest. A life that felt like safety, peace, and laughter, even when the world outside got loud.
He started looking at houses online, occasionally sending me screenshots.
"This one has a small garden," he'd say. "Perfect for the plants you love."
I'd laugh and send him back pictures of kitchens. "You need a space where you can try those recipes you keep forgetting to make."
We weren't rushing. But we were aligning. Slowly, quietly, confidently building a dream that no longer felt like just talk.
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Weekends became sacred. Even if we didn't go out, we made them feel like ours. Cooking meals together. Playing cards. Sharing long conversations about how our childhood shaped us. And, in those talks, we found even more reasons to love each other.
"I never really had a stable home growing up," Zeon said one evening, lying beside me. "But now, with you, I get what it means."
That night, I wrote in my journal:
He doesn't just love me. He lets me be his soft place to land.
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There were still challenges. Family responsibilities. Budgeting. Dreams that had to be postponed because real life doesn't always move at the pace you want it to. But instead of growing apart, those things taught us to grow together.
We didn't just fight for our love. We protected it.
His mother once told me, "He's calmer since he met you. It's like he finally knows where he belongs."
That meant everything.
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The future still held uncertainties. But one thing had become very certain: no matter where life would take us, we'd always lead each other home.
Because love, real love, is not about never leaving. It's about always returning.
To the one who knows your heart.
To the one who steadies your soul.
To the one who feels like home.