Michael Appelt

Before anything was written, there was a voice that stayed.

Not above. With. Breath given.

A world without distance. And one instruction simple enough to lose: love.

Love what made you.

Love what stands next to you.

We didn’t. We chose what shines. We chose what wins. We chose ourselves. We learned power. We forgot presence.

Still. Something refused to leave. Not loud. Not forcing. Just this, again and again: you are still loved.

Not better. Not ready. Still.

And then it stopped being words. It sat with the unwanted. Touched what we avoid. Stayed where we would leave. And when pushed, it did not push back. It gave. Everything.

Which only makes sense if love is not what we thought: not agreement, not safety, not being right, but staying when it costs.

We don’t like that. We prefer love that proves us right. That protects us. That asks nothing.

But the other kind remains. Quiet. Unimpressive. Unavoidable. In patience that hurts. In forgiveness that feels wrong. In not turning away.

No headlines. No reward.

Just this: when everything else is gone, what remainsis not what you believed, not what you said, but who you stayed for and whetheryou loved anyway.

Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It does not dishonor others. It is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrong.