There comes a moment in every long-term relationship where a quiet realisation sets in—one that feels less like a sudden heartbreak and more like a slow fading of colour from a once-vivid painting. Where does the passion go? Where do the small gestures that once seemed second nature—writing a letter, sending a spontaneous text, hugging without reason—disappear?

At the start, love is all-consuming. The fire is relentless, the desire insatiable. You want to touch them constantly, know their every thought, drown in their presence. But alongside this passion comes something else—fear. Fear of losing them, jealousy, possessiveness, trust issues. The insecurity fuels the intensity, making every touch electric, every glance loaded with meaning.

Then, as time passes, something shifts. Trust settles in. The love solidifies into something steady and reliable. The jealousy eases, the fights become less dramatic, the urgent need to be reassured fades. But so does something else—the madness of passion, the desperate craving, the reckless abandon. What once felt like a raging storm begins to resemble a quiet river. Steady, dependable, but no longer unpredictable.

The years bring familiarity. You learn their morning face, their quirks, their little habits that once felt endearing and now sometimes frustrate you. The way they take too long in the shower, the way they always forget to put the towel back, the way they make the same mistake over and over. And yet, somewhere in that frustration, there’s love too. A love that says, I know this about you, and I love you anyway. A love that knows they won’t change, and it’s okay because you have decided to accept them as they are.

But where does passion go? Even if love remains, where does the longing for their body, the thrill of making love, the spontaneity of touch disappear?

Perhaps love, over time, becomes a conscious choice rather than an instinct. A decision to reach out, to initiate, to rekindle. To say, I choose you today, and I will choose you again tomorrow. But how long can one person keep choosing when the other stops noticing? How long can you be the one to start the kisses, the hugs, the caresses when they no longer feel like a natural part of your connection, but simply something that’s done out of habit?

Is this the inevitable fate of all relationships—that what starts with fire cools into something warm but no longer burns? Or is passion something we must fight for, something that requires effort to keep alive?

Maybe love doesn’t disappear. Maybe it just changes shape, finding comfort in routine instead of urgency. But the question remains—can we live with this quieter love, or do we always find ourselves longing for the fire?