The first magic of love is our ignorance that it can ever end.

Early on, love has no edges. You have not yet watched one thin out or stop, so you spend it as though the supply were endless, and that carelessness is most of what makes it feel enchanted. Later, when you know better, the same warmth arrives with a quieter weight underneath it. Knowing is not a loss, though it does change the flavour of the thing.

If you are in the early part, let yourself have it without narrating it to yourself. If you are past that, pick one person and treat an ordinary evening with them as finite, because it is.