What Do I Know About Love, at 21.

What Do I Know About Love?

Good question. I would prefer to talk about it later, though. Ask me about the economy?

Take 2:

What do I know about love? I don’t know much at all.

I know I fear love because it threatens to destroy me—or at least the version of me I can tolerate. Yet, I crave it. Subconsciously, I long for it to flow endlessly, as if through an IV, woven into the fabric of my life and dreams.

I want love to be everything.

Still, I do not know what it is; I have not learned much yet.

Is love what they shared, those two in my elementary class? Holding hands in the hallway, their fleeting romance which introduced me to envy. “Why not me?” I wondered. “Why am I not loved?”

Yet a week later, they broke up, and we gossiped for months as though their love was a tragedy on the levels of Romeo and Juliet. “How dare he!” we all condemned as if, at 12, we were the authority on love proper. Always given an elevated chair, the lovers changed, and new soulmates trickled through friendships as I took a listening spot on the sidelines, trying to understand what I was missing. Were they full? I asked myself, fuller than I am now. Did they learn what love is—or did they, like me, only grasp at a dream?

Love and hate are not opposites; they are the same, the echo of passion through loss and longing. The worst is indifference.

Love burns into hate, where flowers grow over the ashes. You’ll forget their birthday and forget to miss them. If you’re lucky, you’ll listen to their favorite song in a few years and be struck with nostalgia. You will remember why you loved them. That is how you know you felt it.

Is love in the movies? In Harry Meeting Sally, —these immortal stories, untarnished by time. Unlike real love, they don’t erode under the weight of endless tomorrows. They profess, so sweetly, that passion outlasts change, that we can curate perfection, set it to music, and preserve it in a montage.

Looking back, love seems eternal. But looking forward, it feels far less romantic. They say love is immortal, but we are not. And yet, I want love to outshine mortality, to defy time.

As always, I consult the books. Kant saw love as an act of will—a deliberate commitment to care for another as an end in themselves, not as a means where we can fulfill our desires. Krishna speaks of unconditional love, a love that gives without asking, liberating us from the self-effacing pursuit of validation. I feel protected by these concepts, as though they offer a shield—to defend an acceptance that transcends reciprocity.

But I often hide behind this notion, pretending I am not quietly asking, hoping, for someone to love me the same.

How much can someone endure before they feel they’ve overstayed their welcome in another’s life, before they begin to see themselves as less, as a burden rather than adored?

We are greedy with love. We want more, always more—until it ceases to excite. If not more, then maybe just one, but they must fit our image: thrilling without frightening, expanding without altering. Love must follow our script, promising until death do us part.

But movies aren’t marriage. When the credits roll, the love story ends. Marriage isn’t that simple. Is it natural? Maybe. But never perfect. It is bound to falter, for even the most heartfelt vows are tested by the strain of living.

They say marriage is a cage—but for who? Him, tethered to fidelity? Or her, laboring to love enough for both of them? A life together inevitably brings moments of doubt. One day, you will lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and wonder: Is this all wrong? The body beside you will feel heavy, like it swallowed the life you weren’t done living yet.

She dreams of lovers who still bring her flowers. He starts hearing his mother in her voice. Settling down begins to feel like settling. The flames of love stop burning, and maybe we grow tired of the fire’s unpredictability, of asking for more.

Without the fire though, I’ve seen how love fades—not into hatred but indifference. My greatest fear is to be consumed by that indifference, to look into those eyes and see myself reflected.

I am afraid of love because I am afraid of this cage. Maybe I was raised in one—in the shadows of a love imperfectly crafted, and the resentment of a burdened commitment. I was taught how to love through the fear of loss.

The daughter learns to keep him from leaving by screaming at his car window. I’m still the daughter, crying in the garage, begging you to stay. Every morning after, I’ll feel the weight of my mistakes, afraid I asked for something but am not worth it. At the first glance of resentment, I will run. I will get behind the wheel and drive away before you can take too much of me. I will always go slowly, one ear listening to hear the sound of your footsteps running after me, proving I’m enough.

How I love is often a cage.

I say I love them, but do I? Or do I fall in love with the mirror I’ve made of them, the reflection of myself in a fleeting moment? Do I know how they grieve, and am I willing to love them even as I watch them go?

I fear love because I fear losing myself. I fear giving everything I have and finding it won’t be enough. I fear you staying only because I asked you to, your opinion swallowing me whole, and me letting it.

I am not a cynic; I am just young. I am a girl who has been told all her life what she is supposed to want—so much so that she isn’t sure if she wants it.

You cannot cage love; it is not a steady flow but bursts of colour in fleeting moments- framing seconds, leaving me in awe and endlessly failing to describe. Love is ragged, formless, and stupid. Beautiful yet fragile, it trickles through my palms no matter how tightly I grasp it.

As much as I run, I hate to let go. I know I can cling desperately, cutting off parts of myself to hold on. I paint a picture I think they want. I beg to be enough—for them, for myself.

I hurt myself more than anyone because my love can take the shape of the hatred I have for myself.

I don’t want to own or be owned, and I want to love freely. Love isn’t about knowing or demanding; it unravels when I beg for someone to save me. Love, I’ve learned, needs to see clearly—to exist without the cages we build.

I think love always forms in the delicate space between dreaming and surrendering. Detachment feels cold. I would not truly love you if I didn’t attach a dream to you. Love, by its nature, carries a tragic hope—a prayer that it might transcend us. Still, we must surrender to the unknown future, fall willingly, and lose all control. Love dreams of a tomorrow that may never come, but it will believe in it anyway.

I don’t know if I can love like that yet—at least not consistently. But I do know that I love, however imperfectly.

I find it in the small things: how they take their coffee, the sound of their laugh, the spring in their step, and their favorite song. It’s in fleeting moments, the trips we plan but never take, and the dreams I stubbornly refuse to let go of. It is every word I speak, in every dream I place in someone else’s hands. I fall in love with birds on the street, with winter snow in my boots and a face flushed from the sun. I fall for quirks and habits, for shared silences and everything.

I love strangers on the street. Oh, our mortality! And our fragile, fleeting ability to share and dream past it.

When I do it all completely, openly feeling deeply, this is how I love. Love is stupid and, at the least, a ridiculous dream, but it is everything that makes the prospect of tomorrow beautiful for today.

So, I am learning to be patient and try my best, knowing I will fail and fall often. I can try, at least.

What do I know about love? Nothing. Ask me when I am dead.

I hope I will know more when I am 22.