When I was young, it was easy for me to love.
I handed out my heart like there was an infinite supply, like it was a thing that couldn’t be dented, or bruised, or tossed aside. There was no math in my affection or comprehension of the harm others could do.
At that age, love is supposed to be an atmosphere; it should simply surround and encompass you.
But eventually, we learn the math.
We learn that humanity doesn’t always value the weight of what they are holding. Loss, selfishness, and betrayal leave their signatures in the form of scars. By the time we grow older, love is no longer an instinct.
It is an act of courage.
In some ways, it matters more now. Because now, we know the cost. We know exactly how much it will hurt if we open the doors and let someone in, and we choose to do it anyway.
I heard a line in a show recently that pierced through my defenses. Speaking on the weight of how difficult and scary it is to love, the character said:
“I feel it enough to sit here and take it.”
Those words hit me like a physical thing.
To feel something so deeply that you are willing to sit in the potential fire of it. Not because you are naive, but because the person in front of you is worth the burn.
After you’ve been hurt, your heart develops a memory. It wants to stay closed. It wants to stay safe. But then, you meet someone, and hope begins to leak through the cracks.
You realize that you’ve reached a point where you feel it enough to stay. You feel it enough to sit there, even when you know exactly how it ends when it goes wrong.
It hurts, and I am here anyway.
Always,
Your Trusted Friend ♡
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