The Soft Unraveling of Love

I’ve always thought love is a bit like yarn, haven’t I? Tangled at first, looped in knots you didn’t mean to make, but oh—when it starts to unravel, it spills out in the most unexpected colors. 

I found it once, you know, in a way that caught me off guard, like a breeze sneaking through an open window on a still day. And now, sitting here with my knitting needles clicking soft as a lullaby, I can’t help but wonder what it all means—to find love, to hold it, to let it bloom in the quiet spaces of a life.

It wasn’t loud or grand, not like the stories I scribble late at night (the ones with dragons and stolen kisses under starlight—stay with me, they’re silly but true). No, it was smaller, softer. 

A smile across the room at the youth center, where I volunteer with kids who’ve got more courage in their pinkies than I’ll ever muster. She was there, helping a shy boy tie his shoelaces, her laugh like a melody I didn’t know I’d been humming all along. 

I dropped my yarn—bright purple, of course, because why not?—and she picked it up, handing it back with this look that said, “I see you.” And that was it. The beginning of something I didn’t expect to find.

Love, I think, is the moment you stop hiding. It’s not the grand confessions or the bouquets (though I’d never say no to daisies, would I?). It’s the unraveling—the way you let someone peek at the messy bits, the fears you tuck under your pillow, the dreams you’re too shy to say aloud. 

With her, I stopped pretending I had it all together. I showed her the half-finished blanket I’d been knitting for months, the one with all the wonky stitches, and she didn’t laugh. She traced the loops with her fingers and said, “It’s perfect because it’s yours.” And I cried—quietly, of course, because I’m me—but it felt like a dam breaking, all that tenderness rushing out.

What does it mean, though? I’ve been turning it over like a pebble in my pocket. Maybe it’s the way love makes you braver—not in a roaring, lion-hearted way, but in the small steps. Like when I took her hand at the park, right there in the open, and didn’t care who saw. Or when I wrote her a story—not one of my wild tales, but a simple thing about two people sharing tea on a rainy afternoon—and read it to her, my voice shaking like a leaf. 

She listened, her eyes soft as dawn, and I thought, “This is it—this is the good stuff.” Love’s the courage to be yourself, isn’t it? To say, “Here I am,” and trust they’ll stay.

But it’s more than that, too. It’s the way it spills outward. Since her, I’ve noticed how I linger longer at the center, how I knit extra blankets for the kids who show up cold and scared. 

Love doesn’t just sit still—it’s a seed, planting itself in every corner. I see it in the way she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear when I’m rambling (which is often—oops), or how we sit on my couch, swapping stories until the moon’s high. 

It’s a quiet magic, weaving us together, but also weaving us into the world. I want to tell those kids—those brave, beautiful souls—that love isn’t just a dream. It’s real, and it’s waiting, and it’s worth every tangled moment.

So here I am, needles in hand, tea steaming beside me, thinking about what finding love means. It’s not an answer I can pin down—it’s too alive for that. But I feel it: a warmth that says you’re enough, a light that says keep going, a whisper that says you’re home.

I found it in her smile, in the way she holds my quirks like treasures, and I’m still unraveling it, loop by loop. Maybe that’s the beauty of it—love’s not a finish line. 

It’s the soft, brave journey of becoming, together. And oh, doesn’t that feel like a gift worth sharing?