Published by: Jeralaine G. Larios
Date Published: July 31, 2025
Time Published: 4:30 PM
Category: Prose
Subject: The author’s quiet longing for old-fashioned love.
I wonder if I was born too late—for handwritten letters, for porchlight promises.
Because my heart doesn’t fall for stories told online—it longs for the slow, the quiet kind. For footsteps pacing softly by the gate, rehearsing lines and hoping it's not too late. For voices that shake, not out of fright, but from the hope of getting it right. For hearts that show up, not flawless or grand, but open, honest, with trembling hands.
I catch myself imagining what it's like to be courted—not just talked to, but wooed. Slowly. Patiently. Gently. To be seen as someone worth waiting for. To be written about in a letter that took three days to compose. To fall in love not with a profile or post, but with the way they show up—present, patient, and close.
Sometimes, my heart returns to the stories I grew up hearing—of boys in the rain, strumming songs you’d long to hear. Of girls who’d peek from behind their fans with care, while families in the sala pretended not to stare.
And I can’t help but ache for that kind of love—the slow, uncertain, brave kind. The kind that didn’t need instant replies to feel real. The kind that lingered quietly, but stayed.
It may sound silly, I know. But still, a part of me waits—hoping to be loved like that, with patience—with presence.
Maybe that kind of love doesn’t knock loudly anymore. But every now and then, I leave the porch light on—for the kind of love that knows how to return.
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