A woman in love does not simply fall. She opens the ancient doors of her being and lets another soul walk through corridors she herself had long forgotten. She carries love like a second heartbeat – sometimes soft and steady, sometimes wild and trembling. In the beginning it arrives as light: golden, warm, illuminating every hidden corner of her days. She moves differently then. Her steps become lighter, her laughter easier, her gaze softer, as if the world had suddenly agreed to be kind. She learns the geography of another person’s silence, the exact tone of their name on her tongue, the way their shadow falls across her pillow. But love, true love, always carries its opposite within itself. There comes the moment when the light breaks. The heart, once wide open, feels the sharp edge of absence. Heartbreak does not arrive loudly. It enters quietly – like evening fog – and settles deep inside the chest. A woman learns then that pain has its own texture: heavy, damp, endless. She knows the nights when sleep refuses her, when she traces old messages with trembling fingers, when memories bloom like night flowers that refuse to close. She understands the strange cruelty of the body – how it can remember a touch that no longer exists, how it can ache in places words cannot reach.Yet even in this breaking, something sacred happens. She discovers that her heart is not made of glass, but of living tissue – capable of bleeding and capable of healing. She learns to sit with the emptiness without running from it. She learns that the same womb that can create life can also cradle sorrow. The tears she cries are not weakness; they are the sea that washes away what is no longer true. In the depth of heartbreak she meets a quieter, stronger version of herself – one who has been burned and yet chooses not to become ash.
A woman’s love is never simple. It is moonlight on water – beautiful, shifting, sometimes drowning. It is both the gentle rain that makes the garden grow and the storm that tears old trees from the ground. She gives herself fully, often too fully, and when it ends she must gather the scattered pieces of her light and decide, once more, whether she still dares to shine. And most astonishing of all – many times, she does. She rises again. Not as before, never exactly as before, but wiser, softer, fiercer. Her heart, now carrying scars like delicate silver threads, becomes capable of a deeper, more compassionate love – one that knows both the glory and the cost of opening. György Németh Creative writer (Szingy Gallery Budapest)
