There’s a particular kind of ache I used to chase, a beautiful sort of melancholy that felt like home, and now I just… don't. It’s strange to be content without that specific flavor of longing. That familiar ache was a comfort, a proof I was still capable of feeling deeply, even if it was always a bittersweet kind of love. It took a long time to learn that 'deeply' doesn't always have to hurt, that there's a quiet, steady kind of joy that isn't chasing some dramatic, movie-esque longing.