The Kind of Love I Write About Isn’t Meant to Be Easy

I don’t write soft, easy love stories—because love isn’t easy.

The stories that stay with me—the ones that linger long after I close the book—are never the simple ones. They’re the ones that leave something behind.

I’m drawn to love that feels real. Not perfect. Not polished. Not easy to explain.

The kind of love that breaks you open.The kind that forces you to face the parts of yourself you’d rather ignore.The kind that asks you to choose someone anyway.

That’s what I write.

Love, in its rawest form, is messy. It’s complicated. Sometimes it’s a little broken in places.

It makes you question everything—your choices, your past, even yourself. It pulls you in, pushes you away, and somehow still refuses to let go.

Because that’s what real love does.

It doesn’t always arrive gently. It doesn’t wait for perfect timing or perfect people. Sometimes it shows up in the middle of chaos—tangled in fear, in mistakes, in things left unsaid.

And still… it stays.

That’s the kind of love I’m drawn to. The kind I want to explore. The kind I choose to write.

Because I’ve seen what it looks like when love isn’t easy—and how it can still be worth choosing anyway.

Not because it’s comfortable. But because it’s unforgettable.

I want my stories to feel like something. Not just something you read—but something you carry with you. Something that lingers. Something that makes you pause after the last page and sit in it for a while.

Because if a story doesn’t leave a mark… what was the point?