Toni Lynn

There is a kind of love that is loud and glittering.
And then there is the kind of love that lives between the shadow and the soul.

Sixteen Valentines ago, we were young and hopeful, standing at the edge of something neither of us fully understood. When I look back at us then, I am in awe. In awe of our innocence. In awe of our grit. In awe of how far we have come.

We had odds stacked against us from the very beginning. Circumstances that could have easily fractured us. Seasons that could have hardened us. Stories that might have ended differently.

But we chose.

We chose to overcome.
We chose to grow.
We chose to stretch.

And in doing so, we began writing a love story that has never been about superficial beauty or perfect logic. It has been intense. Intimate. Mysterious. A force that transcends what the eye can see and what the mind can neatly explain.

There is a poem that has always felt like ours. One we have quietly shared between the two of us through the years: One Hundred Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda, specifically Sonnet XVII.

“I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”

That line.

That has always been us.

Not a love displayed for applause.
Not a love built on appearances.
Not a love dependent on ease.

But a love forged in the quiet. In the in between. In the unseen spaces where real intimacy lives.

Over sixteen Valentines, we have walked through different seasons of our love.

There were Valentines when everything felt new and electric.
Valentines marked by uncertainty and building foundations.
Valentines shaped by stress, growth, stretching, and learning who we were becoming.
Valentines where the world outside felt heavy, but inside our home there was still us.

Each year adding another layer.
Another scar.
Another thread woven into the fabric of our story.

Neruda writes:

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride.”

There is something sacred about a love that cannot be reduced to logic. A love that does not rely on performance. A love that does not demand perfection.

Our love has not always been easy. It has been refined. It has been tested. It has required surrender. It has required humility. It has required us to confront ourselves as much as each other.

But it has also been steady.

“So close that your hand upon my chest is mine.
So close that your eyes close with my dreams.”

Sixteen years ago, I could not have imagined the depth we would reach. I did not yet understand that real love is less about roses and more about roots. Less about fireworks and more about embers that refuse to burn out.

Our love has carried mystery. It has carried intensity. It has carried intimacy that only time can cultivate. It truly transcends superficial beauty and tidy explanations.

And here we are.

Sixteen Valentines later.

Still choosing.
Still growing.
Still writing a love story that lives between the shadow and the soul.

Happy Valentine’s Day to the man who has walked every season with me.
To the love that does not bloom for applause but carries its light hidden within.

Here’s to the mystery.
Here’s to the depth.
Here’s to us.