Lama tak citer pasal cinta ~ always love the feelings!
Aidan is travelling this Easter - pergi Paris.. and so, I decided to share with him those photos that we took 25 years ago, so that he might want to recreate our memories. The good 'ol days..
But this photo strucked me. The contrast of us both!
...
Two Photos, and a Lifetime in Between
Reflections on love, change, and the quiet things that stay the same.
It started with just two photographs.
Taken in Paris, in front of Notre-Dame—twenty-five years ago.
One was taken by him: composed, symmetrical, thoughtfully aligned. I stood there in my floral dress, smiling; still unsure how deeply that captured moment would nestle into our story.
The other? Taken by me.
A little chaotic. A little tilted. Strangers in the background. He stood with his arms wide open, half-laughing, mid-pose.
Back then, he said nothing about it.
Not a word about the angle, or the crowd, or the cluttered frame.
But yesterday, twenty-five years later, as we were flipping through the old album, he looked at that photo a bit longer and smirked.
“I took a better photo of yours. Look at how you took mine!”
I laughed. Sahih! It was definitely better. Neater. Cleaner. The kind of photo you'd frame.
The photo I took? It was haywired. But real.
It was him, as I saw him, vibrant, alive, full of movement. It wasn’t polished, but it held something more precious: presence.
We’ve changed over the years. That’s natural.
But there were seasons; quiet, sometimes heavy ones; where I wondered if he had changed.
The man who once wrote notes and made surprise gestures felt quieter now. Less expressive. Less… romantic.
I remember once telling our son, jokingly, that his father gave me flowers only three times in 25 years.
Once, during our courtship.
He woke up early, made his way to my place, and secretly placed a bouquet of white roses in my wardrobe. I opened the door and gasped. My heart still remembers that feeling.
The second time was during my pregnancy with our firstborn.
I had been hormonal and tired and somewhere along the road I blurted, “You never give me flowers anymore.”
That evening, he came home with three things:
A music CD, a box of Frosties, and one red rose.
He explained,
“The CD will last and keep you company during your road trips to Kemaman. The Frosties? Good for you and the baby. And this…” — he held up the rose — “will wilt in a few days. You still want to argue for flowers?”
Touché. I smiled, even though part of me still wanted more roses.
The third time was bold.
I had just landed a new job in KLCC. It was my birthday.
And there, at the office, came a delivery of two dozen red roses. A big, showy bouquet. Everyone noticed.
I knew exactly what it was: his quiet, cheeky way of “marking his territory.”
And that was the last time I received flowers from him.
Do I miss those moments? The courting and dating moments? Sometimes.
I do miss the earlier version of us. The notes. The playful surprises. The honeymoon softness.
But love changes. It matures. It finds new ways to express itself.
Now, he shows his love differently.
In checking the car before I drive.
In locking up the house when I’m tired.
In how he being extra concern about the kids' education.
In how he still makes sure I’m never left alone to shoulder things.
And just yesterday, before heading offshore for two weeks, he asked me quietly:
“Is there anything lacking in me, or in us? What do you think we can improve—our family, or ourselves?”
I paused. Twenty-five years together, and you'd think I’d have a list. But I didn’t.
There was nothing serious to bring up.
No big gaps. No lingering hurts.
Just a steady kind of love that never left.
I look at those two photos again now.
One perfect. One haywired.
But both >> us.
That’s what marriage often is. One partner frames the picture, the other catches the feeling.
One sees the symmetry. The other, the soul.
We don’t always show love the same way.
We don’t always speak the same love language.
But somehow, we still speak to each other. And that’s enough.
Love doesn't always come in bouquets.
Sometimes, it comes in a full tank of petrol. Or a quiet, sincere question before a long goodbye.
And while the petals of early romance may have faded, the roots have only grown deeper.
Maybe he doesn’t give me flowers anymore.
But he’s still the man with arms wide open.
And maybe, just maybe,
That’s the kind of love that truly lasts.
Lillahitaalla
Allahumma ameen
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