Different Definitions of Love

For a long time, I believed love was simple.

Not easy.

Simple.

Two people care about each other.

Two people choose each other.

Two people stay.

That was my definition.

I carried it everywhere.

Into conversations.

Into expectations.

Into dreams.

Into our relationship.

The problem was that I assumed everyone defined love the same way.

They don't.

That became one of the most important lessons of my life.

And one of the most painful.

The truth is that Manne and I loved differently.

Not necessarily more.

Not necessarily less.

Differently.

At the beginning, I didn't notice it.

Why would I

Love feels the same when everything is going well.

The differences only appear when life becomes difficult.

When expectations appear.

When sacrifices become necessary.

When people are forced to choose between what they want and what they fear.

That's when definitions reveal themselves.

My definition of love was built around presence.

Being there.

Showing up.

Staying.

Trying.

Again and again and again.

Even when things became difficult.

Especially when things became difficult.

If I loved someone, I fought for them.

That wasn't a decision.

It was instinct.

A part of me.

Maybe a flawed part.

But a real part.

For me, love wasn't measured by feelings.

It was measured by effort.

By consistency.

By commitment.

By choosing the same person repeatedly.

Even on the days when it wasn't easy.

Especially on those days.

Manne saw love differently.

At least, that's how it seemed to me.

For her, love needed freedom.

Space.

Choice.

The ability to remain herself.

The ability to continue growing.

The ability to breathe.

And looking back now, I don't think she was wrong.

I think she was protecting something important.

Something she had learned to value long before I arrived.

The problem wasn't that either definition was bad.

The problem was that neither of us fully understood the other's.

When she pulled away, I moved closer.

When I moved closer, she sometimes needed space.

When she needed space, I worried.

When I worried, I held on tighter.

And without realising it, we sometimes created the very problems we were trying to avoid.

Love is strange that way.

Sometimes two people hurt each other while trying to protect what they care about.

I think we did that more than either of us realised.

One of the hardest things for me to accept was this:

Just because someone loves differently doesn't mean they love less.

That lesson took years.

Because when people don't love the way you do, it can feel personal.

It can feel like rejection.

It can feel like distance.

It can feel like a lack of care.

Sometimes it isn't.

Sometimes it's simply difference.

A difference in language.

A difference in experience.

A difference in fear.

Manne carried fears I didn't fully understand.

Fears created long before I became part of her life.

Fears connected to trust.

To dependence.

To losing herself.

To making the wrong choice.

To getting hurt again.

At the time, I saw those fears as obstacles.

Now I see them as wounds.

And wounds don't disappear because someone loves you.

I wish I had understood that earlier.

Because there were moments when I interpreted caution as hesitation.

Moments when I interpreted fear as distance.

Moments when I interpreted uncertainty as a lack of feeling.

Maybe sometimes I was right.

Maybe sometimes I wasn't.

The truth probably lives somewhere in between.

The older I get, the less interested I am in deciding who was right.

What matters now is understanding.

And understanding tells me this:

We were both trying.

Just in different ways.

I was trying to build permanence.

She was trying to preserve freedom.

I was trying to create certainty.

She was trying to avoid repeating old pain.

I was trying to hold on.

She was trying to feel safe.

Neither goal was unreasonable.

Neither goal was selfish.

They simply pulled in different directions.

Back then, I thought love was enough to solve that.

Now I know love is only part of the equation.

Understanding matters.

Timing matters.

Healing matters.

Compatibility matters.

The truth is that two people can genuinely care about each other and still struggle.

That idea used to upset me.

Now it comforts me.

Because it means our story wasn't a failure.

It was a human story.

Two imperfect people trying to love each other with the tools they had.

Sometimes succeeding.

Sometimes failing.

Always learning.

If someone asked me today whether Manne loved me, I wouldn't answer with certainty.

Not because I doubt her.

Because I learned that love is too complicated for certainty.

What I know is that she cared.

I know that she stayed through many chapters.

I know that she shared pieces of herself with me.

I know that she mattered.

And I know that I mattered to her too.

The rest belongs to interpretation.

And interpretation changes with time.

Years later, when I look back at us, I don't see a villain.

I don't see a hero.

I don't see a winner.

I don't see a loser.

I see two people carrying different definitions of love.

Two people trying to make those definitions fit together.

Two people hoping effort would be enough.

Sometimes it was.

Sometimes it wasn't.

But for a while, we genuinely believed it could be.

And honestly

That belief was beautiful.

Even if it wasn't forever.