But I have learned that love is quieter than that. Love is the fact that I remember you hate the feeling of dry socks. Love is me buying strawberries even though I am allergic, just so I can watch you eat them. Love is the absence you leave in a room—the way a chair seems lonelier after you stand up.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the most radical thing we can do is to record each other. To say: You mattered. You were here. I saw you. un video para mi amor
They tell you love is fireworks. A grand gesture. A sky full of light. But I have learned that love is quieter than that
(I see you. I choose you. I keep you.)
I am making this video because words, sometimes, forget how to arrive. They leave my mouth as smoke—beautiful, but gone before you can hold them. Love is the absence you leave in a
Because love— this love—is not a feeling. It is a verb. A small, stubborn action. Repeated. Again. And again.
So here is my promise, recorded in light and shadow: