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I used to think love was loud. Like in the movies, shouting in the rain, hugging at the airport. But one who, while reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, I came across a line: “Love does not manifest itself in the desire to have sex with someone… it manifests itself in the desire to sleep next to them.” And I understood: love is quiet. It's when he just sits beside you, reading, and your heart suddenly feels softer. Since then, I stopped waiting for storms. I search for silence, the kind where my “self” doesn’t hide, but blooms.