Why I Write Love Quietly

Love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes, it comes like a letter.

The kind people once wrote with ink-stained fingers, leaning over paper with patience. Each word chosen, each pause intentional. A letter wasn’t loud, but it lasted. You held it close, folded it carefully, kept it in a drawer for years.

That’s how I see love.
That’s how I write it.

A quiet love is no less powerful. It arrives gently, accommodates, and finds its place to stay. It is a whisper, a breath, a shiver that runs along your spine. It is the forehead kiss and the passion that burns behind closed doors. It is both memory and presence — a chance to revisit the feelings that shaped us and a way to process all that still moves inside us.

I write love like this because I believe it lingers longer.
It doesn’t need to perform. It doesn’t demand an audience. It comes from the inner soul, strong enough to stay.

In my books, my characters don’t shout their love into the world. Maya and Tomás share it in unfinished blueprints and in silence over coffee. Mariah and Thomas code it between lines, learning that logic and love are not enemies but secret allies. Marcus and Stella discover it in pauses, in moments when the world grows quiet enough for them to hear each other.

And me? I’ve learned that quiet love is not the absence of passion — it’s the form passion takes when it feels safe. It is both mature and childish. Fun and profound. Ordinary and extraordinary — all at once.

That is why I write love quietly.
Because I believe it burns longer that way.