One Year, Two Months, Forever

When Doubt Comes Knocking

Sometimes love feels like a fire—bright, warm, and all-consuming. But there are days when even fire flickers. Not because it’s gone out, but because the wind is strong.

That was the kind of season we entered.

It didn’t begin with shouting matches or big betrayals. No, it began in the quiet. The kind of quiet where you start to notice things: a change in his tone, the delay in responses, how your name doesn’t sound as sweet as it used to in his mouth.

He hadn’t changed completely, but something in his spirit felt farther away. And I felt myself working harder to reach him—like I was stretching on my tiptoes, arms out, and he was just a few inches beyond what I could grab.

We had arguments. Small ones, scattered across days. Some over nothing. Some over the same things we’d already talked about. Sometimes, it wasn’t even the words he said but how he said them. There was a sharpness, an edge, like he wasn’t even aware that he was hurting me.

I remember one particular night clearly. I sat in my room with my journal on my lap, and I just let the emotions flow out in ink.

I wrote about how much I loved him.

I wrote about how I felt like I was losing him.

I wrote about the confusion—how he could make me feel like the only girl in the world one moment and like I was invisible the next.

I didn’t plan to show it to him. But the next day, when I saw him again, something inside me whispered, Let him see the truth.

We met under our tree. The one place that always brought us back to our beginning.

“I wrote something,” I said quietly, holding out the journal.

He looked at it like it was a bomb and a blessing all in one.

“What’s in it?”

“Everything.”

He took it from me gently. That night, he didn’t say much. Just held my hand for a while and kissed my forehead. I watched him walk away, holding my thoughts in his hands.

I barely slept.

The next morning, I found him sitting outside, waiting for me. His face was calm, but his eyes were stormy.

“You poured your heart out in that book,” he said.

“I did.”

“Some of it hurt to read. But I needed it. I needed to see how you were really feeling.”

There was a silence between us. One that didn’t hurt this time. Just held space for honesty.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t want to sound like I was nagging. I didn’t want to lose you.”

He moved closer and held my face in his hands.

“You’ll never lose me. Not like that. I didn’t even realize I was slipping.”

His voice cracked a little. Mine did too.

“I just miss us,” I whispered.

“Me too.”

He kissed me softly, and in that moment, it felt like our fire had been reignited.

That week, we found our rhythm again. Not a perfect one—but an honest one. And that honesty brought us back to laughter.

One afternoon, we decided to spend the evening at an open field on campus. Just the two of us. I brought snacks, he brought his speaker. We played music, danced barefoot on the grass, and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

“You know I can beat you in a dance battle,” I teased, swinging my hips dramatically.

“You? Beat me?” He burst into laughter. “Please, your two left legs are already confused.”

“Say that again and I’ll steal your snacks.”

He grabbed the chips protectively. “Touch my food and I’ll declare war.”

I lunged toward him anyway, and we tumbled into the grass, playfully wrestling. The kind of moment that made you forget all the hurt. All the questions. All the fear. For a while, it was just love and laughter and tangled limbs on warm earth.

Then there was the time my friend’s boyfriend—someone I used to chat with before I even met my babe—came to ask him for relationship advice. It was strange, watching two guys who had never really been close talk about something so vulnerable.

Later that day, my boyfriend turned to me.

“He told me something.”

“What?”

“He said I was lucky. That you’re a really good girl. That if he had someone like you, he’d never mess it up.”

I blushed, unsure what to say.

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I already knew I was lucky. And that I don’t plan on losing you either.”

We looked at each other for a long moment. A silent understanding passed between us.

But even with all that sweetness, there were still hard moments.

One night, after a rough day, we got into another argument. I don’t even remember what started it—something silly, something emotional. But the fight got tense fast. He said something in frustration that pierced through me like glass.

“Sometimes I don’t even know if you trust me.”

I froze.

“How can I not?” I said. “I’ve given everything.”

“Then why does it feel like you're always waiting for me to fail you?”

His words sank deep. He wasn’t shouting. He was just… tired. And so was I.

We didn’t speak for hours after that. We both needed space.

The next morning, I woke up to a long message from him.

I’m sorry for last night. I love you. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. But you are my peace. I don’t ever want us to go to sleep angry again.

That message broke me and healed me all at once.

And so we kept going. Because we still chose each other.

Through the laughter, through the tension, through the playful teasing and the deep, aching love. We still came back to each other.

Our love wasn’t soft every day.

But it was real.

And in a world full of almosts and maybes, real was everything I needed.