Love is a funny thing. You expect it to be easy. You expect it to be a world of roses and laughs and perfect moments that you find only in movies. You expect him to always say the right thing, and always know exactly how you feel, or exactly how to react to it. You expect him to calm you down when you’re yelling or to chase you when you run away. You expect so much that you feel entirely, and utterly defeated when something doesn’t exactly match up with all your plans. But that’s the thing, love isn’t a plan. It doesn’t have a certain beginning and it certainly has no end or visible finish line to those deeply in it. Love happens, and it is so incredibly messy.