Love, in the beginning, did not whisper.
It arrived like laughter spilling into the streets, like a song played too loudly in a quiet room. It made no apologies for its presence.
They were still learning who they were when they found each other. Too young to understand permanence, too hopeful to doubt it. The boy loved with his whole chest, the kind of love that leaned forward, that asked questions, that wanted to know. He noticed details how her voice softened when she was tired, how she avoided hard conversations by smiling through them. He thought noticing was loving.
The girl loved differently. Not shallow, not careless just lighter. Love to her was something you felt, not something you dissected. When things were good, they were good. When they laughed, it meant everything was fine. She believed love should be easy, and because it felt easy, she assumed it was strong.
From the outside, they looked perfect. Two teenagers tangled in late-night calls and unfinished dreams. Friends spoke their names in the same breath. Teachers smiled at them like they were a small miracle.
The boy imagined futures quietly. Shared mornings. Inside jokes that aged with time. He never told her how far ahead his mind traveled he didn't want to scare her with forever.
She imagined moments instead. The next laugh. The next touch. The next day that felt warm enough.
Neither of them was wrong.
They were just standing on different pages of the same book, believing they were reading the same line.
And when love is loud, no one hears the silence forming underneath it. Well at least
Not yet.