Love Hidden in Quiet Days by Olha Hrybivska

Mira liked her coffee black,

even though she always wrinkled her nose at the first sip. Leo noticed that the first week they met.

She never explained why she drank it anyway. He never asked. He just remembered she preferred it that way. 

That was how it was always between them - not a dramatic whirlwind, not grand gestures or loud declarations. Just quiet understanding. A gentle kind of love, like warm sunlight seeping through the curtains in the morning.

They met in the campus library during the final weeks of university. Both had books spread around them like armour, notebooks filled with half-scribbled thoughts, and the same look of tired eyes. Mira’s pen had run out. Leo offered his. She kept it for weeks, returning it only after writing “thank you” on his wrist in ink.

Mira and Leo felt comfortable in each other’s company. That’s why they kept arranging their little study dates and eventually became partners. 

And here they are, still together after three years of relationship. 

Their apartment was small, cluttered with books, plants, which Mira insisted were not dying, and Leo’s weary headphones. They shared a calendar on the fridge, full of colour-coded work shifts, lectures, and the rare matching day off. Lately, those were becoming less frequent.

Now Mira was in her second year of law school. Leo worked night shifts at the hospital and spent his weekends doing freelance jobs. Conversations became quick summaries: “How was your day?”, “Don’t forget to eat”, “Did you sleep at all?”

Sometimes, they would go two days barely exchanging more than a sleepy kiss goodbye.

Mira never complained. Leo never asked whether it was okay. But the silence between them started to feel heavier.

One night, Mira came home to find the apartment dark except for the desk lamp Leo had left on. A sticky note was on her laptop:

“Page 42 of your textbook has a typo. You’re welcome. - Leo.”

She smiled. He’d clearly stayed up late again, waiting for her to get home before leaving for work. She noticed the coffee mug still on the counter, the one he only used when he missed her. It had her lipstick stain on it from that morning.

That weekend, they finally shared a Sunday off. It rained all day. They stayed in bed, the window open just enough to let in the sound and light coldness.

Mira rested her head on Leo’s chest.

“We don’t talk much any more,” she said softly, more observation than complaint.

“I know,” he replied. His fingers traced absent circles on her back. “It’s not because I love you any less.”

“I know”, she said with certainty. 

They were quiet for a moment. Then Leo added, “Sometimes I feel like we’re just… surviving.”

Mira nodded. “Perhaps we are. But that doesn’t scare me. As long as we’re surviving together.”

They made a pact that day. Nothing big, just an agreement: twenty minutes every night. No screens, no distractions. Just them - even if they were tired, even if they didn’t have much to say.

Some nights they’d talk about future plans — maybe visiting the mountains, or getting a dog when things calmed down. Other nights, they’d sit on the couch in silence, legs tangled, holding mugs of tea neither of them finished.

But they showed up for each other. Every night. Even if it was just to sit in the same room.

The calendar on the fridge stayed just as full. But the time they carved out became an intimate ritual. It wasn’t always romantic. It wasn’t always deep. But it was always real.

One evening, Mira came home late after a difficult class presentation. She found Leo asleep on the couch, her lawbook still open beside him. He’d highlighted the parts she’d been worried about.

She sat next to him and watched him sleep. His hair was messy. He had a habit of frowning slightly even at rest. She brushed his hair back gently and whispered, “We’re doing okay."

And they were.

Their love wasn’t the kind that made headlines or filled movies with dramatic reunions and soaring music. It was a quiet kind - steady, forgiving, and patient.

They accepted each other fully - her stubborn ambition, his hardworking mindset, the long days apart, the missed messages, the silence that sometimes grew between them.

But they chose each other. Every day. Not because it was always easy, but because it was worth it.

And in a world which spins too fast, in the world where you have little guarantee or support, their choice of each other - made gently, made calmly - was the only thing they could be sure of. 

It was their own kind of miracle.