When Love Becomes a Shadow

You ever sit somewhere quiet, maybe on a park bench or by your window at dusk, and feel the weight of a love that’s slipped away? Not gone, exactly, but faded, like an old photograph left too long in the sun. I was there last week, sipping coffee that had gone cold, staring at the way the light hit the leaves outside. It made me think of her—of us—and how love can sometimes turn into this faint outline, a shadow of what it used to be. You know that feeling, right? When you’re not sure if you’re holding onto the memory or if it’s holding onto you.

Love’s tricky like that. It starts bold, vibrant, like a summer sunset painting the sky in reckless pinks and oranges. You’re all in—heart racing, palms sweaty, laughing at nothing because it feels so good to just be with them. But then, time creeps in. Life happens. Work piles up, arguments simmer, and suddenly you’re not sure when the colors started to fade. It’s not always a dramatic breakup, no slammed doors or tearful goodbyes. Sometimes, it’s quieter. Slower. Like love just tiptoed out the back door while you were busy doing the dishes.

I think about my friend Sarah, who told me over wine one night how she woke up one day and realized she didn’t know her husband anymore. Not because he’d changed, but because they’d both stopped noticing each other. “We were living parallel lives,” she said, her voice catching just a little. “Like two train tracks that never cross.” It wasn’t hate or betrayal that got them—it was neglect. They let love slip into the shadows, and by the time they noticed, it was too faint to pull back.

And isn’t that what happens? We get caught up. We forget to check in, to ask the small questions, to listen. I remember my own moment of drift—those late nights working, coming home to a partner who was already asleep, the conversations that never happened. It’s not that we stopped loving each other. It’s that we stopped tending to it. Love’s not a houseplant you can ignore and expect to keep blooming. You’ve got to water it, give it light, maybe even talk to it a little. Sounds cheesy, but you know what I mean.

There’s this café I pass by sometimes, tucked into a corner of my neighbourhood. The owner, an older guy with a scruffy beard, always has this one table set for two, even when it’s empty. I asked him about it once, curious. He smiled, a little sad, and said it was for his wife. She passed years ago, but he keeps the table ready, just in case her memory wants to sit with him. That’s love, isn’t it? Not just the big moments, but the quiet ones, the ones that linger like a shadow even when the light’s gone out.

It makes me wonder—when does love start to fade? Is it one missed moment, or a thousand tiny ones stacked up over time? I don’t have the answer, and maybe you don’t either. But I think about that table, that empty chair, and I realize love doesn’t have to stay a shadow. It’s work, sure. It’s messy and imperfect, and sometimes you’ve got to fight for it. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe love is less about holding on and more about choosing to show up, day after day, even when it’s hard.

So, here’s my question for you, as I sit here with my now-lukewarm coffee, watching the leaves dance outside: What’s one small thing you can do today to keep your love—any love, for anyone—out of the shadows? Just one thing. Because maybe that’s enough to start.