A woman named Emily Whitaker was deeply infatuated with a man named James Thornton. She fancied him—his charm, his presence—everything about him captivated her. She mistook this longing for love.
Yet it pained her. No matter how hard she tried, he remained indifferent. She flirted with playful tones, cast lingering glances, seized every chance to talk, even undid the top button of her blouse—all the right moves. Useless.
Worse, James began paying attention to another colleague—Penelope Clark, a plain woman, older than him at that. He chatted with her endlessly, fetched her coffee from the machine, smiled warmly. Soon, he started driving her home in his Jaguar. Penny didn’t even have a licence!
How could this be? Emily was clearly younger, prettier. Yet she didn’t stir his heart.
The truth was simple. Emily knew nothing—and cared to know nothing—about the man she desired. Oh, she knew he was single. Knew his salary was impressive. Knew his suits were bespoke, his car expensive. That’s all. The rest? Irrelevant.
It was him she wanted—his strong arms, his intoxicating smile. She dreamed of marriage, of belonging to him.
But what on earth did he and Penny talk about? Messaging, calling, sitting in his car for ages, just talking. That wasn’t love. That was chatter.
But love is chatter. Love is understanding someone so deeply, you finish their sentences. Laughing at a joke before it’s told. Speaking in the same unspoken language, never running out of words. Loving every part of them—their first breath to their last.
Did he eat? How’s his father’s health after the treatment? How’s his back? Remember that old *Sinbad* film with the clay monster chasing him? Wear a coat, it’s chilly. Did you play rounders at summer camp?
There’s a line in Maugham’s book—do you remember? Look, the leaves have turned yellow like old letters and photographs. My violet finally bloomed—after years! You were in the gardening club, weren’t you? Your cactus flowered once—you were so thrilled.
Let me check your forehead—do you feel feverish? You’re warm. Wear a hat. The wind’s picking up.
And then, an embrace. Because you’re my reason for living. You’re mine, and I’m yours.
To an outsider, it’s just babble. Childish prattle. No. It’s the language of love—spoken only by those who understand. Deep, relentless curiosity about another soul.
Emily was only curious about herself. About her hunger, which she called “love.” A craving to possess, to claim. To devour.
But what you don’t understand can never be yours. Music you don’t grasp won’t move you. Poetry you can’t fathom won’t speak to you. A person you refuse to know will never be yours. You’re too busy consuming. Lusting. Wanting.
No trick can awaken love—only mutual hunger from someone just as selfish. Then they part ways. What now? A stranger remains. Nothing binds them.
You can adore a swan. Admire it, feed it, shelter it. Or you can love it—then roast it like Henry VIII, make a pâté, devour it. Feel full. Then hollow. Where’s the swan now?
So it is with love. Some don’t understand others, nor love itself. They undo buttons, whisper sweetly, gaze invitingly. Sometimes, they catch the swan. But it gives no meaning, no joy—just fleeting satisfaction.
Explaining love to them? Hopeless. They won’t get it.
Author: Anna Kiryanova.
