My Only One
Can we define what love is? It’s a trick question. We’ve spent centuries trying to contain that word within a universal concept, as if it were a mathematical formula you could apply and always expect the same result. But the truth is that love is something so desperately complex that, depending on who names it, the meaning changes entirely.
For some, love is a safe harbor; for others, a shipwreck; for still others, a beautiful rainbow... There are those who define it as a constant whisper, and those who can only understand it through screams and storms.
I wonder what words you would use. Perhaps for you it means creating unique memories, or that shared silence that doesn’t feel awkward. But for me... well, for me love has always carried a slightly more twisted meaning.
I suppose that’s why I’m here, telling you this. Because if we’re going to talk about what happened, we first need to agree on something: my definition of love doesn’t have to resemble yours at all. And that, precisely, is the most dangerous thing about this story.
