It was 8 PM on a Saturday. November had settled in, bringing with it that specific, quiet chill that seems to invite introspection. I was sitting across from my dear friend, Celine, a coffee cup growing cold between us. The café was alive with the standard weekend buzz, but in my head, there was only silence.
My body was in the chair, but my mind was miles away, navigating some distant, unnamed sea of thought. I have a habit of doing this—of detaching from the present and simply floating.
Celine, who knows me better than most, had apparently been watching me. Her voice finally cut through the fog.
"You," she said, not unkindly, but with a note of clinical observation, "are so incredibly hard to read."
I blinked, the anchor to my thoughts suddenly cut. "What?"
She laughed softly. "I mean it. I'm sitting here watching you, and I have no idea if you're solving a global crisis in your head, remembering a recipe, or just completely checked out."
I offered a weak smile, but she had already lost me again. My gaze drifted back down, finding refuge in the dark, still surface of my coffee. I watched the overhead lights distort in the black liquid. Her voice became a pleasant, familiar murmur, the soundtrack to my wandering. I caught phrases... "always thinking"... "so private"...
...until one question, sharp and unexpected, sliced through the noise.
"Have you ever been in love?"
I physically jolted. The question felt so loud, so misplaced in the comfortable silence I’d been occupying. "What kind of question is that?"
We both laughed, and the strange tension broke. The air felt lighter. But Celine wasn't letting go. She leaned in, her eyes kind but insistent, and repeated it. "Seriously. Have you?"
I paused, genuinely trying to find an answer. I mentally scrolled through the files, the chapters, the long list of faces and places. I searched for the specific, electric, all-consuming feeling that songs and films promise. I found affection. I found deep loyalty. I found passion for my work.
But that?
The file was empty.
I looked back at her, the confusion now replaced by a genuine, serious curiosity. "What is being in love?"
The laughter that erupted from us this time was louder, richer. She shook her head, still smiling, knowing she had unlocked something.
I knew it too. This was going to be a long night.
I think I was in love a time or two, but maybe it was just strong chemistry. Years ago, I had to step in to raise my granddaughter when her mother left, so love for me is elusive. Does showing acts of loving kindness count as love? Well, I usually fall asleep with two rescued cats and a bird on my head, so is that love? I saw an interview with an actor that challenged, why is it that when it comes to finding love and pursuing one's passion, you cannot have both? This fine young lady on this page here certainly should have love, as she has given much and has so much to give. I wish her well.
What a beautiful perspective. Acts of loving kindness are not just 'counting' as love, they are the very definition of it. You have given your granddaughter and your pets a home in your heart, and that speaks volumes about who you are. Thank you for seeing me and for your gentle wishes. I wish you nothing but peace and joy.
Ho 58 anni e non mi sono più sentito amato tutti i giorni da quando ne avevo 5 solo 2,5 anni di vera gioia poi sempre e solo un sopravvivere e mai più veramente amato è probabile che un giorno morirò solo, pensando quale è stato il mio scopo nella vita. Nessuno capisce nemmeno se gli sbatti in faccia la verità che tristezza.