Love isn't a single color in the spectrum of human emotion - it's a prism that reflects different lights in different moments. There's the steady warmth of family love, the reliable glow of friendship, the intense spark of romantic connection, and the deep radiance of forever love. When you asked me if I loved you, you were asking me to capture a rainbow with a single word.
After being heartbroken multiple times, I thought my heart had lost its ability to bloom with new feelings. I had built walls, not to keep love out, but to protect what remained of my capacity to care. Yet somehow, without intention or design, I found myself falling. Not in an instant, not in a day, but gradually - like dawn breaking over a sleeping garden. Our connection grew through hours of conversation, through shared moments that bridged the distance between us, through laughter that made time zones disappear.
When you questioned my love, insisting I didn't love you, you placed me in an impossible position. The truth of my feelings was complex - a mixture of unconditional care I give to those dear to me, and something new that was beginning to bloom. It wasn't the forever kind of love, not yet, but it was genuine, growing, real in its own right. But how do you explain the subtle shades of sunrise to someone who only asks if it's day or night?
I've always been one to wait in matters of the heart. Since that first rejection at twelve years old, I've learned to let others express their feelings first, to wait for them to define the shape of what grows between us. This isn't just fear - it's respect for the natural rhythm of emotional growth. Love isn't a race to declaration; it's a patient cultivation of possibility.
When you said I couldn't have fallen in love so quickly, you misunderstood the nature of my heart. Love doesn't follow a universal timeline. Some loves flash like lightning and fade just as fast; others grow slowly like ancient trees, their roots deepening with each passing season. The love I was developing for you was finding its own pace, its own form.
Now, after being told not to love you, I find myself in an unfamiliar landscape. The heart that I thought couldn't love again had proven me wrong by beginning to fall, only to be told to stop mid-flight. I meant it when I said my heart was big enough for both of us, when I offered 200% of myself, when I supported you through your feelings for others. That's the kind of love I give - unconditional, supportive, without demand for reciprocation.
The intimacy we shared, the desire to know what my mother would think of you, the hours spent building our connection - these weren't casual choices for me. They were expressions of something genuine, something growing. I don't fault you for any of this. The joy and happiness of our connection, the parts I've shared with others (never the intimate moments, always the public joy), were real and remain precious.
But now I stand in this strange twilight of emotion, where what was clearly developing has been asked to stop developing, where the natural progression of feelings has been interrupted mid-bloom. I'm not sure where my heart is anymore - not because the feelings weren't real, but because they were real enough to respond to your request not to love you, even as they continued to exist.
What you should know is that this isn't about blame or regret. It's about understanding that love, in all its forms, deserves the space to be what it is - whether that's friendship, romantic connection, or something in between. I offered you unconditional love, and that offer remains, even if its shape has changed. Because true unconditional love adapts; it doesn't demand or insist. It simply is, in whatever form it needs to be.