the kind of love that doesn’t photograph well

There’s a kind of love that looks good on camera. Flowers, weekend getaways, champagne, roses, carefully curated joy.

And then there’s the kind of love that doesn’t photograph well at all, because it lives in routines. In the unremarkable, quiet moments that no one posts.

With Valentine’s Day on the horizon, odds are I’ll forget and then make a heart-shaped pizza for fun. I’ve never been a huge fan of Valentine’s Day and it tends to slip my mind. Maybe we’ll muster the energy for a late steak dinner after the kids are asleep, when the house finally goes quiet. Not performative or particularly impressive, but it’s ours.

He calls me on his way home from work — even though he’ll be home in thirty minutes — just to talk. Not because there’s something urgent. Just because we like hearing each other’s voices.

He wakes up at an hour that feels offensive to the human body, but still makes an effort to make a dent in the household duties before he leaves. He lays out the boys’ winter gear in the mudroom, leaves evidence that he was here and that he cares about the friction of my day.

When he’s out with his friends, he texts me to ask what I’m doing — not to check in, not to monitor, just because I’m still part of his night.

When I start scheming DIY projects, he rolls his eyes — and then immediately starts looking up where to get the supplies.

I pack him snacks for work because I know he forgets to eat. I make space for fun in our house because he works too hard and doesn’t naturally leave room for rest or joy. I’m the one who says, stay out later, have another drink, enjoy your friends — and he’s the one who always wants to come home to us anyway.

He’s not a reader, but he asks about my books. He lets me explain the plot. He listens like it matters — because he knows it matters to me.

We plan the future carefully, but it can be hard to dream wildly because we’re genuinely happy with what we already have. Sometimes the present feels full enough that imagining more feels unnecessary.

This is the kind of love that doesn’t require grand gestures.

It looks like shared labor. Like quiet loyalty. Like remembering small things. Like choosing each other in ordinary moments and building a life that feels safe, not flashy.

And maybe that’s why I never loved Valentine’s Day — not because I don’t believe in love, but because the version of love I believe in doesn’t fit the forced feeling of the holiday.

And maybe tonight that looks like a last minute heart-shaped pizza, a quiet house, tired bodies, and a late dinner after bedtime.

But that’s exactly where I want to be.