How to Tell Someone You Love Them

"I love the fuck out of you." That's what she said. Sitting at a large conference table in the most comfortable chair. She looked right at him and told him she loved the fuck out of him.

She'd told him she loved him before, of course. And she'd shown him she loved him time and again. She would tell him one week later that she loved him. Just out of nowhere, while they were walking together on a crowded city street.

He loved her, too. But, he kept wondering why she didn't want him. Why she didn't love him. Why wasn't this brilliant, incredible, beautiful woman who was spending all her time with him - why wasn't she his?

He would show up with flowers or her favorite wine. He would send her notes and cards. He listened when she talked and sent her thoughtful gifts at surprising times.

He was kind to her - a good listener. And all she wanted was all of him. Why couldn't she have him?

She'd said she loved him - she told him she "loved the fuck out of him." She asked about having a child with him. She picked out houses and went looking at them with him. She helped him pick out gifts for his nieces and nephews. She asked about his child and when she could meet her.

She asked him to meet her mother. She told her brother that this new man was "him." That he was her boyfriend, and he was the forever one.

She cooked for him. She made him his favorite cocktails. She dressed in a simple dress and heels and hugged him tight when he came in the door. She created the fantasy world he always wanted.

One day he went to her house and there was a box. A large box full of shoes. He loved shoes. She'd picked out six pairs just for him. He tried them on - and they were all great. A random, wonderful gift from her to him.

She asked him when he was going to the store next and went with him - just walking and talking and being with him at the grocery store. She found out when there was an important meeting he had to attend, and she showed up and hugged him before and took him for drinks after.

She found an article he had written and sent it to him with some comments and thoughts. She found out when he was going to be on an obscure radio show and texted him about what he said.

She invited him over for margaritas and mushrooms - and took care of him as he enjoyed the trippy experience.

She made him go golfing with her so he would try something new. She planned a schedule of learning a language and playing tennis so they would see each other every day.

She asked him about his unfinished projects, carefully nudged him to get working, and then added life and energy to the project. She kept him focused on the dream he wanted.

He had all of her, she told him. Even the night he was so drunk he doesn't know how he got to her house, she cared for him and fed him and held him.

They planned a trip to the beach - time alone. She went hiking with him. She helped him prep for TV interviews. She made lists with him of project goals and life goals and helped him map how to get there.

There was nothing he feared when she was with him. She made him stronger, wiser, more productive - she saw his best and found just the right way to help him achieve it.

Still, he wasn't hers - not 100%. Not at all, really. He kept wondering why she didn't do the things that he expected - why didn't she tell him what was not possible? Why didn't she scream at him? Why did she keep coming to him and celebrating him and telling him he was great? Why did she keep asserting that his dreams could be reality?

He assumed she wasn't real - that this wasn't possible. To be safe, he just stayed at a distance. His heart told him this was special. But his mind and his experience told him it wasn't real, wasn't sustainable. He said the words "I love you." But he kept a part of himself - never gave her all of him.

"I love the fuck out of you," she told him. That was just too much.