A REASON TO LOVE
“You’re being awfully sharp,” remarked Henry, watching Alice pack her suitcase. “What’s going on?”
Alice dragged her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf—the ones he had dismissively called “sentimental rubbish.”
“Remember when you promised to teach me about wine?”
“So?”
“Exactly,” she said flatly, tossing the flat key onto the table. “Nothing. As usual.””
“I don’t mean to neglect you!” he protested. “I’ve just got my own things going on.”
“And I’ve got my own life, Henry. I’m tired of waiting for you to be part of it.”
Alice had always dreamed of love like in the novels—meeting someone and instantly knowing, *This is him!* A whirlwind of emotion, breathless connection, tenderness, devotion, and that elusive “spark.” And if there were problems, they’d be external—never between them.
“Sweetheart, love at first sight only happens in fairy tales,” her mother used to say gently. “In real life, love needs a reason. More than one.”
Alice would scoff. “A reason? Mum, that’s just cold calculation, not feelings!”
“People don’t love for nothing. You adore kittens and babies, sure—but even a kitten stops being cute if it ruins your slippers. And a man? You’ll want someone who cares, who supports you. A pretty face might catch your eye, but what happens after that?”
Her mother was right. But Alice hadn’t known it yet.
She chased her perfect man, ignoring the ones who were actually there—until a new bartender started at her favourite café. Tall, dark-eyed, with a voice like velvet. The first night he poured her a glass of wine and murmured about hints of black cherry and vanilla, her heart skipped.
She fell. Hard. Forever. Or so she thought.
“He’s different,” she insisted to her friend. “Brilliant, passionate—not like anyone else.”
“He’s a bartender, Alice. Just a guy. And a bit full of himself.”
But Alice wouldn’t listen. Not when he was rude meeting her parents. Not when he spent his first paycheck after months unemployed on a guitar instead of rent. Not when she worked two jobs to keep them afloat while he played online games all day.
She endured. She believed. Because with him, she felt that dizzying rush—passion, longing, the promise of a fairy tale.
But the fairy tale ended quickly. Henry wasn’t the kind to invest in love. He wanted to be adored unconditionally—fed, supported, inspired—while living for himself. Beautifully. Freely. Without responsibility.
Alice packed in silence. Rain tapped the window. Her chest ached, hollow and bitter.
She remembered: a year ago, she’d tucked the receipt from their first date into her purse. “Just the beginning,” he’d promised. Turned out, it was the end.
“I got it wrong,” she said aloud, to no one. “I mistook infatuation for love. Now I know—love isn’t given for free. It’s earned.”
When Alice returned to her parents’ house, her mother just nodded.
“About time. Welcome back, grown-up daughter. Now you see—love isn’t butterflies. It’s being seen. Heard. Valued. And getting the same in return.”
Alice sat at the kitchen table, pouring herself tea—hot, strong, undiluted by excuses. For the first time in ages, she felt calm.
Sometimes, to love properly, you first have to learn who isn’t worth loving at all.
