I remember the first time I said “I love you” to a romantic partner. We were walking on a pier in Manhattan, and he stopped to kiss me. He said it first, nervous, uncertain, blushing. I grinned, shocked, and said, “I love you, too!” and we continued walking. I remember thinking, Is this love, though?, but I figured that’s just what you say when someone you care about tells you they love you.
The meaning of those words changes with each partner I say them to, and each time that I say them. The first time I said it felt momentous, but it meant very little. Over time, it became a desperate attempt to stay connected in a long distance relationship. With my next partner, it was said somewhat grudgingly at first, and morphed into a sort of detached affection – I never loved him, but I needed his adoration and was willing to utter those words in return. The last partner that I said “I love you” to was the only one I truly felt it with. It was simultaneously comforting and dangerous, soothing and frightening. It didn’t consume me, but it was always there; that sweet, soft heart-flutter.
Love is not an emotion that comes easily for me. Sure, I can meet someone and think, wow, this person is awesome! and I can decide very quickly that I want to express how I feel by exchanging saliva, but is that love? It’s attraction and and curiosity and fascination and novelty, certainly. But love feels much deeper than that, for me. Love is something to be stowed away, sheltered, until I feel safe enough to let it out; my love is not to be doled out haphazardly.
Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I am conflating love with commitment, with which the stakes are much higher, therefore a guard is required. Imagine being able to say: “I love you. It’s no big deal. It doesn’t mean you’re The One, or even one of the ones. It doesn’t mean you have to love me back. It doesn’t mean we have to date, or marry, or even cuddle. It doesn’t mean we have to part ways dramatically in a flurry of tears and broken dishes. It doesn’t mean I’ll love you until I die, or that I’ll still love you next year, or tomorrow.” Love is fickle and often fleeting. It may not last longer than an hour or a week. But love, on its own, doesn’t hurt. Love is a delicious, delightful cocktail. It’s the expectations that we pile onto love that cause us pain. It’s the belief that our love ought to be a weight on someone else’s shoulders, that if they do not bear that weight, they don’t deserve our amplified opinion of them. So perhaps my cowardice when it comes to saying “I love you” stems only from a misinterpretation of love’s definition. But until I discover that distinction myself, I remain restrained.
