Love (n):

I was 13 when it first came. It was the endless talk, which took so long that my dad had to cut the line because the bill was piling up so fast. It was the bold admiration, the "I like you" that was uttered as loud as its meaning. It was the careless attitude toward the thin line between the L words, the cluelessness about the potential catastrophe about it, and the exchanged smiles; the damned smiles.

When I was 15, it was the tiny spaces in between the loosely intertwined fingers. It was the laughter shared in between the first kiss, and the arguments on which side to tilt whose head to as it continued. It was the movie marathon in my living room, and the non-awkward silence it brought right after; head on shoulder, sometimes legs on lap.

When I was 19, it was the lit phone screen at midnight, which was a gate to the fairy-tales of make-beliefs and play-pretends. It was the distance that was brought so close through texts. It was the question of "love at first sight? How about love before that?"

When I was 22, it was freedom, which was by then too much that it got so confusing. It was solitude, and the feeling of completeness, even when I was alone. It was what I thought was the end of the desperate endeavor, before it was the beginning of a new search instead; a gentle reminder that the definition will never stay the same.

I'm 26 now, and for all I've seen and what I'm seeing, it is the comfort. It is far beyond the initial ideas, deep beneath the very few surface of what the eyes can reach and hands can grasp. It is the plot twists, the unpredictable encounters, the mutual willingness to go further, and the childhood curiosity, brought back to life in the way the fairy dusts do to the lost boys' dreams.

It is you.