We accept the love we think we deserve.
Funny how art, music, and books taught me more about love than real people. Maybe that’s why my perception of love and romance is so skewed. From the moment I first saw Beata Beatrix in my art history textbook to the first time I watched Cloud Atlas, every single bit added to a conceptualization of love that is impossible. Love like that is truly rare; one in a million of lives and once in a lifetime. Either that, or the bitterly normal routines of comfort count as love too.
Couples who struggle to make it. Couples who fight. Couples who tolerate each other. Couples who have gotten too comfortable with each other. Does that counts as love too? And if so, how can love hold such different stories?