Around a year ago, during one of the most difficult phases of my life, in between an episode of terrible migraine I knocked on his doors. My head was bursting with pain, and I wanted to shut myself away from the world, distant from anything that produced any light or sound. His small, dingy room in a secluded space was a perfect place to crash down. After several bouts of nausea and vomiting, I was in a bad shape. As the headache subsided a little, my stomach was growling with hunger and all I wanted to eat were potatoes exactly the way my mother makes them. Not his way. Not my way. But the way my mother cooks them. With almost no expectations I told him the recipe. In his one room apartment, while I rested in his bed, he toiled in the kitchen to cook something he hadn’t even tasted. After half an hour or so, with almost a frightened look on his face he asked me to taste the food. I took a bite and smiled. It tasted exactly like my mother’s. And, for the thousandth time, I fell in love with the same guy.
After several years of being in a relationship, I understood that love is not just the butterflies you get in your stomach when you hold each other’s hand for the first time, or your first kiss, or roses on Valentine’s Day, or a romantic night under the sky.
More than being just a warm fuzzy feeling in your heart, love is a verb.
And in love, more than what you say, what matters more is what you do.
Inspired by: Discover