**Diary Entry**
There was a woman who fancied a man. She felt something deep—infatuation, attraction—a pull so strong she mistook it for love. He was handsome, well-dressed, successful, and everything about him drew her in. She thought she adored him.
But it plagued her. No matter what she did—flirtatious glances, playful tones, excuses to chat, even undoing that top button—nothing worked. The man barely noticed. Worse, he began paying attention to another colleague. A plain, older woman, nothing extraordinary. Yet he lingered in conversation with her, fetched her coffee, gave her those warm, lingering looks. Soon, he was driving her home. The woman couldn’t even drive herself!
How could this be? The lovestruck woman was younger, prettier—by all accounts, the obvious choice. But he felt nothing for her. The truth was simple: she knew nothing about the man she claimed to love. Oh, she knew he was single, that his salary was handsome, his suits tailored, his car expensive. But that was it. She didn’t care about *him*—only the idea of him. The way he looked, the way he made *her* feel. She longed to be held by him, to marry him.
What could he possibly find in that plain woman? Endless chatter, phone calls, sitting in his car just talking? That wasn’t love. That was just… talking.
But love *is* talking. It’s understanding someone so completely you finish their thoughts with half a word. Laughing at a joke before it’s even told because you already know. Speaking the same language, never running out of things to say. It’s caring—*really* caring—if they’ve eaten, how their father’s treatment went, if their back still aches. *”Remember that old Sinbad film, the one with the clay monster?”* *”Wear your coat, it’s chilly.”* *”You grew flowers in school—your cactus bloomed, you were so proud.”* *”Let me check your forehead, you feel warm.”*
Holding them close because they’re the reason you breathe. Because they’re yours, and you’re theirs.
To an outsider, it’s just noise—childish babble. But to those who love, it’s their own language. A deep, abiding interest in every part of another person. The woman didn’t love *him*—she loved the idea of having him. An appetite, a hunger to possess something desirable.
But you can’t make something yours if you don’t understand it. A song you don’t grasp will never move you. A poem you can’t fathom won’t speak to your soul. And a person won’t truly belong to you unless you *know* them. Tricks and charms might stir lust, or catch the eye of another with the same emptiness. But then what? You’re left with a stranger.
You can adore a swan. Admire its grace, feed it, shelter it from the cold. Or you can roast it, turn it into a pâté fit for Henry VIII. Devour it. Feel briefly satisfied, then wonder—*where’s the swan now?*
Love is the same. Some only see possession, not understanding. They undo buttons, whisper sweetly, cast longing looks. Sometimes, they catch their swan. But there’s no joy in it. Just fleeting fullness.
And try explaining love to them—it’s no use. They don’t understand.
*Lesson learned: Love isn’t taken. It’s shared.*
