
What does it mean to be in love? Is it the butterflies, the late-night conversations, the shared dreams of a future that feels like a John Hughes movie? Or is it something else entirely—something quieter, more pragmatic, and maybe even more real? I’ve been married for eight years, and I can tell you this: my marriage is not a love story. It’s not even close. But it’s also not not a love story. It’s something else, something that exists in the gray area between obligation and affection, between convenience and commitment. And honestly? It works.
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