Where Did We Learn to Hide Love

 I remember this one afternoon at a cousin’s wedding.

There was this little girl, no older than two or three, dressed in a frilly pink frock, her cheeks so tender and round, could’ve been made from lullabies and moonlight. She ran across the hall, hair bouncing, laugh ringing like wind chimes in a quiet home. No one knew her name, but every person she passed smiled like they did. Old women scooped her up. Strangers touched her face. One uncle kissed her plump cheek, another blew raspberries into her belly. She didn’t flinch. She laughed harder.

No one judged. No one looked away. It was normal. Expected, even. That’s what we do with children, isn’t it? We love them out loud. We kiss them without asking. We cradle them in public. We don’t worry about who’s watching. Because love, in that moment, feels Safe. Sacred. Shared. And yet… something happens to that love as we grow.

We become taller, yes. But smaller in spirit. Our hearts learn hesitation. Our hands learn to stay still. We fall in love real, heart-throbbing, soul-stretching love and suddenly, affection becomes something that needs permission. Location. Privacy.

A kiss on the forehead? Only if no one’s watching. Fingers intertwined? Keep them low. Hide them in your coat pocket. A soft touch on the back? Wait till you’re alone. Even a glance held too long in public feels like rebellion. And somewhere along the way, we stopped asking why.

Why is it that a child can be kissed a hundred times a day without question, but kissing the person you want to grow old with feels like an act of boldness?

We say love is beautiful. We write poems about it. Sing songs about it. Make films that glorify it. But when love dares to step outside, when it reaches for a simple kiss in the middle of a street, we pull it back. We make it small.

He wants to kiss her. Not passionately. Not publicly for show. Just... softly. Because in that one moment, maybe when she fixed her hair, or smiled without realizing, it felt impossible not to. But he doesn’t. Not here. Not in front of people. Instead, he smiles and says nothing. And a thousand kisses stay tucked behind his silence.

We don’t need more secrecy. We need more softness.
We need to normalize love again not in lust, not for attention, but in tenderness. In warmth.
In the kind of kiss that says, “I’m just so happy to exist beside you.”

Let it be okay to kiss the one we love gently, honestly, without needing to hide behind closed doors or societal discomfort. Let love be what it always was: a human thing. A beautiful thing. A brave thing.