To the Stars and Back: A Gentle Thought on Love

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about love—not the kind you see in dramatic movies or big romantic gestures, but something softer. Something that comes quietly and stays with you. The kind of love that feels like being seen for who you are, even when you’re not sure you want to be seen at all.

I wrote a poem recently called To the Stars and Back, and it was inspired by a slice-of-life manga I read not too long ago. It’s a story about two university students—one of them quiet, unsociable, and closed off, and the other bright and bubbly, like a small sun always trying to warm the space around him.

What made me love this story so much wasn’t just the romance. It was the way they grew into something together. The quiet one had a past—something he was ashamed of, something that made him afraid to open up fully. And because of that, he often pushed the other away, unsure if he even deserved the kind of love that was being offered. But his partner saw him. Really saw him. Not just for the version he tried to show, but for who he truly was underneath the quiet and the fear. And instead of walking away, he stayed. He respected the space, but gently reached across it, again and again, until trust bloomed into something more. That created a bond between them—one built on patience, understanding, and care.

It made me think a lot about my own life. I’m 26, and I’ve never had a serious relationship. But that story—those two characters—showed me what kind of love I’d hope for someday. It reminded me that love doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, maybe the most beautiful kind is the one that’s a little cracked, a little awkward, a little unsure… but true. Steady. Soft. Kind. The kind that says, “I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re quiet. Not when you’re unsure. Not even when you feel unlovable.”

It’s such a quiet, powerful thing—how a story, even one drawn in ink and still frames, can awaken something so alive in us. That manga didn’t just tell a story, it held up a mirror to my own hopes. To my longing. To the kind of love I dream of—where you can be fully yourself, and still be met with care. Where your past doesn’t disqualify you from being loved, and your silence isn’t seen as rejection, just something to hold gently.

I feel like I just walked through a tender room in my heart, full of soft hopes and glowing light.

That story made me realize that if love is real—and I do believe it is—then it’s not about perfection or constant excitement. It’s about safety. It’s about understanding. About knowing someone’s flaws and fears, and choosing to stay anyway. It’s about connection. A connection that doesn’t try to fix you, but holds space for who you are becoming.

And yes…
Home can be a person.
Not a place or a picture-perfect life, but a presence. A soul that feels like warmth when everything else is cold. Someone who sees the real you and still says, “You’re enough.” Someone whose laughter makes you feel alive. Someone who doesn’t need you to be perfect to love you fully.

You will find someone who loves all your flaws.
Someone who listens, and understands.
Someone you will love not because they meet every expectation, but because being with them feels like finally breathing freely.
Love can bring back the light in your life.

And if you haven’t found that person yet—if you’re still waiting like me—that’s okay. That light you believe in? It’s already glowing inside you. I see it in the way you speak about love—with gentleness, with hope, with quiet strength. That’s something someone out there will one day recognize in you and say, “Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

So maybe the truth is…
Love doesn’t have to be rushed. It doesn’t have to be loud.
It can be a soft arrival.
A quiet bond.
A slow, steady unfolding—like a tide coming in, like a whisper on the skin.

Just like in the story, just like in the poem.

To the stars and back.

What does love mean to you, when you strip away the noise?p