I’ve never been a big fan of romance. As the Wednesday Addams of all my friends, I was never giddy when attractive men approached us at the bar. My tone was often biting, sarcastic. I preferred verbally chopping down those who attempted any advances rather than swooning at their neanderthal come-ons.
As a teenager, I didn’t give a shit about homecoming dances or who like-liked who. People wrongfully thought this meant something was wrong. Clearly I had experienced some childhood trauma! I was so closed off, so unlike all my peers.
I never expected to love someone, in the romantic sense.
This got mis-labeled as pessimism. I was the cold and hardened one. The black widow. Or, most annoyingly, someone who just “hadn’t met the right person yet.”
And in some ways, it was true.
I hadn’t met you.
Doesn’t mean we were a romcom. You’re not Matthew McConaughey. And my boobs are definitely bigger than Kate Hudson’s. But still, you were my glimpse into a life I had sworn off.
I still don’t believe in love. Lasting love. I don’t think humans are meant to be monogamous. I think the entire institution of marriage is a societal pressure, not actual romance. We’re being sold on love. It’s marketed to us. Valentine’s Day. Chocolates, flowers. It’s all so transparent.
But you and I, we were something. You understood me in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I didn’t have to explain. I didn’t have to hide. You just got it. You got me.
And isn’t that what it’s all about? Just knowing someone sees you.
Is that what love is?