When I think of love, I picture a garden—not the manicured kind you find in magazines, but one that’s alive, unpredictable, demanding. It begins with a seed: a spark of attraction, a handshake that lingers a moment too long, a conversation at dusk that neither of you wants to end. The shoot pushes through soil, fragile and hopeful. Then come the seasons—spring’s tender bloom, summer’s reliable warmth, fall’s rustling uncertainty, winter’s harsh dormancy or quiet trial. Read More…