Is It the Start or the End?

What is love? Some people ask me. Meanwhile, I ask myself, what is love? I ask myself, do I know what love is?

I don’t know what love is. I have seen what people claim to be love. Are they asking me because I’m cold? Are they asking me because I have not dated someone? I have experienced an unrequited love; the type of love I don’t recommend. Could it be that they ask me because an unrequited love is not love? Are they asking me because it is the type of love that only one person experiences? Maybe I've been thinking too much, but I can tell them my love was painful.

Every time I met him, I was invisible. I wanted to be the person who made him laugh, but I could not. The distance, our differences that kept us apart, was something horrifying. I wanted to break the wall and let him know me. My eyes each day looked for him. I wanted some of his attention. I was becoming a sunflower and admiring the sun was my life.

I want to say I did tear that wall apart, but in the wrong way. My friend liked him. I couldn’t tell her I liked him, too. I let her have him—I gave up. My pain grew up, but this time I had the chance to make him smile. They became friends. I got to be close to him. Each day he meant so much to me. I hated myself. They were not dating, but I gave up on him. My feelings were not welcome. She was my friend and friends are before boys. I have always been the shy girl; the girl who could not hide her feelings well. When I was around him, I stupidly got nervous and talked nonsense stuff, making him laugh. I don’t know if he found out about my feelings, but I was the reason he smiled in that moment. I was insanely happy because of that. He and my friend never dated. She ended up dating his friend. She wasn’t talking with him like before and I, cowardly, became invisible to him again. I kept remembering that I gave up. My thoughts had me down; they were holding me back.

I did not see him for a long time. I lost track of time. I lost myself in time. Each day I kept him in my mind. I was becoming obsessed. I needed to stop. I found a momentary solution: I started to write poems to him, letting my feelings out. It helped me to find myself again, but destiny had other plans. I met him again.

My feelings were not buried. They were not strong like before, but I still had hope. My heart, my mind, everything was lying to me. I didn’t want the feelings. I wasn’t someone in his life. I won’t lie, there were times in which I thought he liked me, but I wasn’t the pretty girl, I was the tomboy; the girl people choose for a friend. I was the one that liked helping people with their problems. Maybe he was only seeking a friend and I wanted to see it differently. Yes, I have experienced love—to the people who called my feelings “unrequited love”—but I don’t know what love is. Will people take my experience as the answer for the question “what is love?” I don’t know, but I could tell you it was painful. It, for me, wasn’t love. Love has a mixture of pain and joy. I received the joy of a friend and the pain of love.