By Junior Thin

LOVE is life, isn’t it?

It’s not always found in poems or songs, not always loud or full of fireworks. Sometimes, love is quiet. It walks gently on the streets, unnoticed by most, but deeply felt by those who pause to observe. I once saw such love, and I still remember it vividly.

Almost every day, between 7 am and 8 am, I became aware of a couple who came to the same street as I sat sipping my morn­ing tea. At first, I didn’t pay them much attention, but soon, the quiet rhythm of their presence touched something deep in me.

The man always wore sun­glasses – thick, dark ones that covered his eyes completely. The woman carried a canvas bag, me­dium in size, hanging over her right shoulder. Their clothes were plain and faded, neither neat nor messy, simply lived-in, speaking of honest lives and long days. There was nothing flashy or extraordi­nary about them. But the way they walked – ah, that was something worth noticing.

He held on to her shoulder gently, his fingers curved softly, never gripping too tightly. His steps were hesitant, uncertain, but hers were calm and sure. She led the way, not pulling him, but walking in a pace that allowed him to follow with dignity. They moved together in harmony, like two parts of one soul.

They used to enter the small café nearby, the one called “Sein”. It was not a grand place – just a humble shop with a few tables, the smell of tea leaves, and a boy who served quietly. This couple came in almost every morning, and every morning, they followed the same routine.

The woman would ask for just one cup of tea, not the special one, the “Shal”, which was more ex­pensive and fragrant, but the ordi­nary one, the cheaper, simpler tea. That choice, too, said something. Perhaps it was a matter of mon­ey, or perhaps it was simply their way, living within means, without complaint.

She also ordered deep-fried twisted dough sticks, fresh from the pan. When they arrived, gold­en and warm, she tore one in half and placed a piece in the man’s hand. Then, with delicate care, she poured half of the tea into the saucer and slid the remaining tea, still steaming in its porcelain cup, toward the man. Everything was shared, halved with balance, not out of duty, but out of love.

I watched as they dipped their dough sticks in the tea, tasting each bite slowly, sipping tea in between. There was no rush. Their silence was not empty – it was peaceful, filled with meaning. They spoke in whispers, close to one another, as if the world didn’t need to know what they were say­ing. I never heard their words, but I didn’t need to. Their connection was clear in the way they sat, the way they listened, the way they smiled faintly now and then.

When they were done, the woman would wave to the young boy and quietly settle the pay­ment. No arguments, no show. She paid, they stood, and they left the café, side by side.

I watched them go, every time. It became a habit of mine, this silent observation. Wheth­er the sky was clear or cloudy, whether the sun was shining or the rain was falling, they walked the same path. Their steps did not falter. The man’s hand remained gently on her shoulder. And she led him, with the same care and calm as always.

I didn’t know where they went after they left. I didn’t know where they lived or how they earned their living. The man’s sunglasses were not just for the sun. He was losing his eyesight – perhaps already completely blind. And the wom­an, with her gentle guiding steps, could see. She could lead. But still, it was impossible to tell who sup­ported whom.

It is easy to assume that the one who sees is the one who guides in every way. But life isn’t always that simple. Perhaps the man, despite his blindness, had a special talent, a craft, a knowl­edge, a quiet strength. Perhaps he was once an artist, or a mu­sician, or someone who taught others through voice and wisdom, not sight. Perhaps they both had learned to depend on one another equally, not out of weakness but out of love.

They didn’t look wealthy. But they didn’t look poor in spirit either. There was a richness in their togetherness, something that could not be bought. The way she handed him the tea, the way he waited patiently for his share, the way they walked in step – it all spoke of a deep, unshakable trust.

I thought many times about their life. Were they husband and wife? Likely so. Had they faced hardship? Surely. But they carried it lightly, gracefully. No complaints, no bitterness. Just a shared path, walked side by side.

Perhaps they had married long ago, not for comfort or con­venience, but because they had found something real in each oth­er. Perhaps their love had been tested by time and trouble, but it remained firm and kind. That kind of love is rare – not made of passion alone, but of patience, acceptance, and quiet care.

His blindness, I realized, was not a void in their life. It did not seem to be a loss that broke them. Instead, it became some­thing they lived with, and around, and through. Her eyes became his eyes, and maybe in return, he gave her something equally valuable – his trust, his presence, his unwavering companionship.

What I saw in them each day was not dramatic, not loud. But it stayed with me. It made me think about love differently, not as a feeling that comes and goes, but as something one chooses, every single day.

Love, in their case, was a cup of tea, shared in halves. It was warm dough sticks, broken in two. It was a hand on a shoulder, steady and soft. It was walking together, rain or shine, on a path that had no clear end.

Yes, love is life.

And for some, it is lived not in grand gestures, but in the simplest things done together, with care.