There’s a quiet kind of love that blooms far from the noise of the world —
somewhere between the tall grass and the soft hum of evening crickets.
A love that doesn’t shout,
doesn’t rush,
doesn’t demand.

It simply grows.
Slow and stubborn, like wildflowers.

I fall in and out of love the way petals drift on a spring breeze —
softly, accidentally, beautifully.
And somehow, no matter how far the wind carries me,
I always float back toward you.

You’re my warm April sun after a long winter,
my patch of clover where I rest my tired heart,
the familiar shape of home in a world that keeps spinning too fast.

And maybe we’re a quiet secret —
a little wild, a little messy, a little hidden.
But secrets planted in soft earth have a way of growing into something strong,
something gentle,
something real.

So I carry you with me like a pressed flower in my journal —
a reminder of all the ways you’ve made my chest bloom.
And if anyone asks why I smile when the wind picks up…
it’s because somewhere, in the fields of my heart,
you’re still waiting for me among the wildflowers.

Onnaya