There is no way of understanding it before it happens.
No one can make you see it, there is no book or movie that depicts how love really is. No song, no quote, there is absolutely nothing to prepare you for it.
It’s not just the electricity and the butterflies and the rushed kisses, and it’s not just the tenderness of looking at each other, or roses and dinner and boxes of chocolate. And it’s certainly not about those destructive relationships that seem to thrive on misery.
Love is… well, I don’t know how to explain it. Poets have tried, writers have tried, and everyone keeps trying because there is just no way to put it into words, but I’ll tell you this: Love means understanding.
It’s that secret glance or secret nod that suddenly makes you connected, like a secret society consisting of you two. And it means work. It means:
I want you when you’re well and when you’re not. I like to kiss you. I like to talk to you. I like walking with you, remaining silent with you, I love the simple fact of us existing underneath the same sky. I love you, good and bad and I’m not leaving any part of you out, because I love you, the you that really exists, the you that is flesh and bone, not just the you that lives in my head. And I’ll enjoy the good days and work through the bad days and I just want us to be together, and grow together, and enjoy life together.
But you see, it’s useless that you read this, because there is just no way that anything will prepare you for it. Especially not me. But here I am, writing. That’s what I always do.