I'll admit, "I love you too" means more, at least it feels like it, likely because it's meant for us. It represents a protector of sorts, covers our feelings, our vulnerability. There is a settling within, a comfort. To hear it back, to validate what you just said, provides the necessary security that we all seek. Not much of a leap, just say what you feel if you do. Boom. But what of the initial leap? The first part of the title, the "I love you" part? It's out there all by itself, unprotected, vulnerable, ripe to be played with by someone else. It’s a moment of pure bravery, that first declaration. When we say "I love you," we're placing our heart on the table, baring our soul without the assurance of a safety net. There’s a risk in that naked honesty, a raw exposure that demands courage. It’s the kind of leap that shakes you to your core, where hope and fear intertwine. In those seconds, everything hangs in the balance—the joy of connection and the dread of rejection. But isn’t that the essence of love? The willingness to step into the unknown, to trust in the power of your own feelings even when they’re not reciprocated?
When I say "I love you," it’s never contingent upon whether you feel the same. It’s not about the anticipation of reciprocation, nor is it about receiving validation. It’s about the declaration itself—the purity of an emotion that belongs solely to me. My love for you exists independently, untethered from your response, rooted in how I see you and what you mean to me.
There’s beauty in that kind of love, a sense of freedom, even though it’s vulnerable. Surely, love is sweeter when returned, when it’s reflected back in a mutual exchange. The kind of love that lasts feels infinite in that shared connection. But when I’ve declared love, it’s been genuine, not based on a transaction.
More often than not, when you say it first, you’re stepping into the unknown, into a place of hope and risk. You may think you know what’s coming, but the only certainty you have in that moment is your own heart. It’s a leap—a moment where you trust what you feel, without guarantees.
And yes, love can break you. If you’ve never been broken by love, perhaps you’ve never truly loved. Heartbreak, as painful as it is, confirms the depth of the love that once existed. It’s a testament to having allowed yourself to feel fully, even at the risk of being shattered.
But here’s the thing about love: it doesn’t simply vanish. Even when it’s no longer present in the same way, it lingers in the memory, especially if it was good. You don’t stop loving; you just get further away from the feeling. New feelings, new people, and new experiences rise up, and they’re good too. But that initial love, if it was real, it stays like a faint echo, a reminder of the depth of your capacity to feel.
While those past loves may echo in the memory, they don’t taint or diminish the love we experience now. If anything, they help us understand what true love looks like when it finally arrives. They were steps on the path, each one teaching us more about ourselves and preparing us for what was meant to last. The love I have now, in this moment, is the best love—because it's not weighed down by what came before, but rather, it's informed by it. My capacity to feel, to love deeply, only sharpened over time, shaping me for this.
As my father once told me, “Son, you'll meet a lot of women, but one day, someone will come along, and who you are will all make sense to her—and vice versa." True indeed. The love I live now is the one where it all makes sense. All those past experiences led me here, and here is exactly where I’m supposed to be. One Love
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