Love is subjective. For me, it was flying to California because it was finally time to love myself more than I loved him.
Love is 18 years of friendship, and the fact that he holds all of my earliest memories in his calloused hands. Love is that I don’t tell him how sad I am without him, because I won’t let him carry the weight of what he’s put me through. Love is that I am still going through it, but I want him to be so happy. Love is when the other girl said she liked him because he’s going to be amazing, and all I could say was “He’s already amazing.”
Love is a beat up, white PT cruiser named Cassandra. Love is a superman necklace. Love was being woken up at 6 in the morning so he could drag my tired ass out into the snow so we could look at the northern lights. It was telling him: “I’m not sure if that was cute or evil.” And his reply: “I’ve seen a lot of romantic comedies, and that was adorable.”
Love, for me, is shared laughter.
It was when my sister told me “one day you will love someone so much that you’ll doubt you ever loved anyone ever before.” Love was the realization that I had found the one she was talking about. But it’s also the knowledge that even though it’s over, and he played that role for me, that it’s still a true thing, and I will find it again.
Love is that I still let him come around, even though the more time I spent with him the more time it will take me to heal. Because he needs me. And I don’t need him, but I want him.
Love was the night we talked about the miracles we’d witnessed in our lives, but the greatest of all was sharing a childhood.
Love was the paper crown, and the joke about the Philistines. It was my first time climbing the Butte, and the fact that he literally just texted me, and I smiled. I can’t tell you what love is, if I’m being honest. Love is an experience, and these are mine. Love will be something entirely different for you. And it will be beautiful in ways you never could have imagined.