When I was fourteen, love was giddy. It was full of illusions of a happy ending, hoping that the first love would also be the last. Love was full of warnings, of “you’re too young,” yet ignoring them thinking you know better and that it was it. When I was fourteen, love was young and stupid.

When I was nineteen, love was reckless. It was forcing the universe, no, begging, “Please, let it be him.” Love was one-sided, crazy, hurtful, wrong. It was toxic yet somehow, like a drug addict, I found myself wanting for more. Love was traumatizing. Love was not it.

When I was twenty, love was ready for me but I wasn’t. Love was someone showing me how much I meant to him, but I was too broken to reciprocate. Love showed me what I deserved but I didn’t realize it any sooner. Love was gentle, but I wasn’t. Love was right but the person wasn’t.

And then, when I was twenty-three, love showed its face to me. It was calm, gradual, and peaceful. When love came, it said, “I want to know your past not to punish you but to understand how you need to be loved”. Unexpectedly, love was choosing me. It was having someone making time for me no matter how busy his schedule was. Love was a process and it went from, “I am grateful to have you” to “You are my strength”. Love was “I promise to work hard to give you the life that you deserve”. Love took care of me when I was sick and never left me. Love was acceptance. Love was kind. Love was patient. Love was Godly.

Today, at twenty-four, love is ready. Love is contentment. Love is marriage.

After all those years, love is finally true.

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