u/After-Pain110

If you tell me you love me, then show me. Not just with words, but with your choices, your effort, your consistency, and the way you treat my heart when nobody is watching.
Because love without action becomes an empty promise. And when someone repeatedly says “I love you” while their actions make you feel unwanted, neglected, or disposable, those words stop feeling like love and start becoming another source of pain.
I don’t need perfect love. I need real love. The kind that shows up, stays honest, makes an effort, and doesn’t leave me constantly wondering where I stand.
If you love me, let me feel it—not just hear it.

If you love me back, please show me. I’m not asking for perfection or some grand gesture—I just need to feel like I’m not standing here alone, holding onto something you’ve already let go of. I’m trying so hard to keep believing in us, but honestly, I’m abandoning all hope here. I love you, and I need to know that I’m not the only one still fighting for this.

-c

When we kissed
and our teeth clanked,
I laughed.
You laughed.
We kissed again—
and our teeth clanked again.
Because love, apparently,
isn’t always graceful.
Sometimes it is pink hair
falling into my face,
a crooked smile,
a missed angle,
a clank—
and somehow,
I loved you more for it.
I remember your toes,
the ridiculous tenderness of them,
me licking them just to make you laugh,
because apparently
that was romance to us.
And that tattoo—
your little “foot fungus” tattoo—
a ridiculous piece of ink
that somehow became beautiful
because it belonged to you.
Your pink hair.
Your pink hair.
Your pink hair.
I could write it three times
and still not say enough.
Pink hair in the morning.
Pink hair in my hands.
Pink hair falling over your eyes
while you looked at me
like I was something worth keeping.
And I kept thinking—
kiss her again.
Even if our teeth clank.
Kiss her again.
Even if I miss the moment.
Kiss her again.
Because some memories
aren’t beautiful because they’re perfect.
They’re beautiful because they’re ours.
The clanking teeth.
The pink hair.
The stupid tattoo.
The toes.
The laughter afterward.
All the strange little things
I never knew I’d miss.
All the strange little things
that made you—
you.
And maybe that’s what love was:
not the perfect kiss,
but the kiss after the clank.
The laugh after the mistake.
The pink-haired girl
I couldn’t stop looking at.
The ridiculous tattoo
I couldn’t stop teasing.
The toes
I couldn’t stop kissing.
The person
I couldn’t stop loving.
When we kissed
and our teeth clanked,
I didn’t think,
This is imperfect.
I thought,
Do it again.
Again.
Again.
Again.