Finding the right words to describe our relationship is anything but easy.
That’s also why I won’t be telling you today where we live, what we do, or what our life in Lausanne looks like. Maybe someday, I will.
But today, I want to share what loving means to me. Because at the core, that’s what our relationship is.

Our friends — and even Francesco sometimes — say we’re “the perfect couple.”
Every time I hear it, part of me stiffens.
Those who really know me, know this: I’m not a confident person by nature. I often underestimate myself. I struggle to see my own worth.
And yet, at the same time, I believe in facts. I’m aware of my abilities. And when I really want something, I almost always find a way to get it.

I believe in willpower, in concreteness, more than perfection.

And maybe that’s why that word — “perfect” — feels so distant to me.
Because perfection doesn’t exist.
Not in me, not in us.
And certainly not in love.
A relationship shouldn’t aim to be an example.
It shouldn’t try to inspire, or pretend to be ideal.
A relationship is two people, two histories, two worlds choosing, every day, to walk side by side.
And this is ours.
Not better. Not worse. Just ours.

That’s why this third article doesn’t want to retell “our story”.
It wants to speak of love.
Or at least, what I believe love to be.

People always say you need to love yourself before you can love someone else.
I never really believed that. For me, it was the opposite.
Loving Francesco was easier than learning to love myself.
He reminded me I already knew how to love. That deep down, I already knew what it was.

I mean love in its truest form: the ability to feel whole, even when you feel empty.
The strength to say “I’m here” even when all you want is to run.
Love is feeling vulnerable, but safe.
Unguarded, but never alone.
It’s being seen and held, even in your brokenness.
It’s when he looks at you and doesn’t want to change a thing.
When anger doesn’t divide you, but opens up a space to talk.
When you feel like you might collapse, but instead, you’re held up.
Love is learning that darkness isn’t to be avoided, but to be walked through.
And that even when it hurts, you are never truly alone.

Right now, as I write this, I’m in one of those darker moments.
And it’s exactly why I’m beginning to understand what loving really means.
It’s easy to love when things go well. When the smiles come effortlessly and time flies.
But when your emotions swing wildly, when you feel irritable, unstable, melancholic… that’s the moment.

That’s when love isn’t just a feeling — it’s a choice.
A presence.
A kind of bravery.
Because loving in those moments means staying, even when you have no strength.
Offering comfort, even when you’re the one needing it.
Becoming a safe place, even when all you want is quiet.

His calm heart that’s always known how to quiet my storms.
That taught me that a bit of fear will always be there, as long as I love him.
Even though, every day, he shows me I have no reason to be afraid.

That’s what love is to me.
That’s what this relationship is.
That’s who Francesco is.