There is a strange miracle in love, the kind that makes you realise you are twice as likely to be hurt by the one you love than by a stranger. A stranger has no access to your heart. No map of your fears. No understanding of the places that ache. But love is given the keys. Love is trusted with the fragile parts. And when love wounds, it cuts deeper, not because it meant to, but because it knew where to touch. And still… we love. Still, we open ourselves again. Because the miracle of love is not that it never hurts. It’s that even after being broken, we find the courage to believe again. To risk again. To hope again. Love hurts more because it matters more. And perhaps that’s the price of something powerful, that it can both wound us and remind us that we are alive.