Lately, something has felt off. I think it’s because I’ve been taking something for granted — something vital, even though it seemed simple. I treated it as a given, not a privilege.

After I left the mental health clinic, my wife and I escaped for a long weekend. The experience had worn us both down, and we needed space to breathe again. While I was away, I felt helpless knowing she was home alone, suddenly responsible for the pool, the garden, and walking the dog — who, I was told, missed me like mad. I did what I could from a distance, offering advice over the phone. In an odd way, that separation strengthened us. Others noticed it too. Perhaps they had been taking it for granted as well.

We returned to our favourite coastal town to celebrate my 55th birthday. Since our last visit, several new restaurants had opened, and we tried many of them. We also returned to the seafood restaurant where we’d celebrated our honeymoon years ago. At first, I assumed the shift I felt was internal. I found myself chatting easily with strangers — unusual for a writer like me, and rarer still given my bipolar diagnosis. My wife noticed it too. She was talking to people as though they were old friends.

Initially, I put it down to the town itself. Coastal places often feel warmer, more open, than our hometown. But as the days passed, something deeper revealed itself. It wasn’t the location, or even a newfound lightness after the clinic. It was the simple, everyday act of being together — something that had been subtly altered by time, stress, and circumstance.

The laughter. The silences. The unspoken understanding.

These moments were no longer assumed. They were cherished. Reclaimed.

As the weekend unfolded, the comments began. Everywhere we went, people greeted us warmly. Servers ushered us to comfortable tables with knowing smiles. Strangers told us, “You’re such a lovely couple.” At first, I thought I was being sentimental, still fragile after my time away. So I decided to test my theory.

The next morning at a coffee shop, I made a point of not holding my wife’s hand. No affection. No closeness. A man nearby, sporting a frothy cream moustache, smiled and asked if we were on our honeymoon.

“No,” I laughed. “Just visiting.”

As we ate, I noticed a woman watching us — envy flickering across her face before she looked away. It reminded me of our landlady asking the same question when we checked in. That was when it struck me: the absence of affection was as noticeable as its presence.

Had we really become that visible?

The question followed me as we walked along the Golden Mile, the salty air whipping at our faces. We sat on the beach and listened to the waves murmur before crashing onto the white sand. We said nothing. We simply were. For once, I pushed my thoughts aside and chose presence.

Yet everywhere we went, I saw it again. The looks. The smiles. The admiration. People responding to something unspoken — a couple still deeply in love after sixteen years. I felt it too. Stronger than ever. I remembered waking up and covering my wife in kisses, her laughter echoing in my memory. Was that really so rare?

I wanted to write about this. To offer hope to those who believe lasting love is a myth. But I needed certainty. I needed to know I wasn’t imagining it.

During our annual leave, it kept happening. A barmaid smiled and told us, “You’re a gorgeous couple.” Her friend nodded in agreement. Maybe it was the tip — but I knew better.

It wasn’t the town.

It wasn’t the holiday.

It was us.

Others could see what we felt.

Then the final piece fell into place, quietly, almost shyly. One small clue leading to a larger truth. And suddenly, everything made sense.

“That’s it!” I thought, leaping out of bed and beginning to write.

Love is the sixth sense.

It’s what happens when all five senses blend into something greater. When sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell converge into meaning. Love is how we perceive the whole.

It’s a sense we all possess, yet so few recognise. Hidden in plain sight. And the proof is in the world’s response — the envy, the admiration, the subtle shift in the air when love enters a room.

Love is visible.

It’s in the way hands meet.

In shared glances.

In a language without words.

Love is the sixth sense.