What Love Is

A letter to my younger, naïve self

People yearn for love - for rom-com romance, to be admired, to feel seen. They’ll gaze upon people in public, admire the gentlest of touches between a young couple as they share earphones, or the softest of glances between an elderly man and his wife as they chat over lunch. They see one person carrying the shopping bags for the other, or a father playing with the children while their mother drinks the first hot coffee she’s had all week. And they think “that’s love”.

And it is.

And it isn’t.

Only when love exists can one realise what love is not.

It is, of course, incredibly easy to conflate the significance of someone else’s role within our own lives, with love. Whether by equating their acts of service to their ‘love language’ or simply by not being able to imagine a life lived without them, love is not the existence of either person, for another person.

Love exists as its own person, or perhaps, it is created as a new person through the fusing, the melting together of two people. In love, an entirely new being is brought into existence, one who exists regardless - or in spite - of any external factors. Distance. Grief. Distraction. Love is impenetrable.

Love is present, in the early hours, when a cup of tea is brought back to bed. She is there when two people are keeping their hands busy, yet enjoying the simple company of each other’s presence. She is there in a gentle grazing of hands in public, or removal of lint from the other’s jumper. And she is there in hospital waiting rooms, and in dark evenings spent dividing attention between a movie and the baby monitor.

Love learns our routines, and anticipates our next move. She’ll put toothpaste on your toothbrush while you change into your pyjamas, or find your car keys before you leave for work, because she knows you’ll have misplaced them, again. She’ll prepare your medication for the day, to save you both the hassle of any confusion and anxiety.

Love whispers in conflict, pulling at your gut and tickling your eyes until tears fall. She stands between you, a heavy presence, refusing to be overlooked within the bitterness. She holds your hand or rubs your shoulder when voices raise. She is the pressure, the feeling when you know you should apologise, or that you should accept theirs. She is stubborn - she will not lose.

Love tells one person what to do when the other falls apart. She teaches patience, vulnerability, and steadiness. She guides you to collect the pieces, but does not show you how they can be reassembled. She places them in the hands of their owner, and allows them to put them together on their own.

And as love grows, the passing of time ages her. She softens, becomes less outspoken than she once was. Her actions may become less frequent, or she may even become less attentive than she used to be. Despite changing forms, she remains.

So many will be quick to tell you they love you, others will claim they don’t think they have ever really felt love at all.

But Love does not tell you she is present - she waits for you to notice. The way you reach for someone in moments of fear, or when they are the person you call first in a crisis. In the way that you feel safe in silence, or that you finally trust someone with your weaknesses. She is not dramatic - her presence feels ordinary at first, so much so that you’ll never know the exact moment when she appeared. You’ll understand one day, that she has been quietly living between you, waiting for you to realise.

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