A REASON TO LOVE
“You’re awfully sharp today,” remarked Oliver, watching Amelia pack her suitcase with a frown. “What’s all this about?”
Amelia dragged her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf—the ones he’d dismissively called “fluffy nonsense for women.”
“Remember when you promised to teach me about wine?”
“So?”
“So, nothing,” she said flatly, tossing the flat key onto the table. “Same as always.”
“I didn’t mean it like that!” he protested. “I’ve just got my own things going on.”
“And I’ve got my own life, Oliver. And I’m tired of waiting for you to take part in it.”
Amelia had always dreamed of love as it was in novels. The kind where you meet someone and—just like that—your heart *knows*. Storms of emotion, breath in sync, tenderness, care, and that elusive thing called *chemistry*. And if there were problems, they’d be external—never between *them*.
“Darling, love at first sight only happens in fairy tales,” her mother would say gently. “In real life, love needs a reason. And not just one.”
Amelia would scoff. “A *reason*? Mum, that’s just calculation, not feeling!”
“People only love kittens and babies ‘just because.’ But even a kitten needs training if it keeps peeing in your slippers. And a man? You’ll want someone who cares for you, who’s your rock. Pretty eyes are nice, but they’re just the start. What comes after?”
Her mother was right. But Amelia didn’t know that yet.
She chased her ideal, oblivious to those who’d always been there—until a new bartender appeared at her favourite café. Tall, dark-eyed, with a voice like velvet. And when he poured her a glass of wine that first evening, murmuring about notes of cherry and vanilla, her heart stuttered.
She fell. Hard. Forever. Or so she thought.
“He’s different,” she insisted to her friend. “Passionate, talented—not like anyone else.”
“He’s a bartender, Amelia. And a bit full of himself.”
But she wouldn’t listen. Not when he was rude to her parents. Not when he spent his first paycheck after months unemployed on a new guitar instead of the rent. Not even when she worked two jobs to keep their flat afloat while he spent his days gaming.
She endured. She believed. Because he had that *thing*—the spark, the pull, the promise of a fairy tale.
But fairy tales don’t last. Oliver was never going to invest in them. He wanted to be loved *just because*. Fed, supported, inspired—while he lived for himself. Carefree. Untethered.
Amelia packed in silence. Rain pattered against the window. Her chest ached, hollow and bitter.
She remembered: for a year, she’d kept the receipt from their first date in her purse. He’d promised it was just the beginning. Turned out, it was the end.
“I was wrong,” she said aloud to no one. “I mistook attraction for love. Now I know—you can only love someone ‘just because’ if they’ve earned it.”
When she returned to her parents’ house, her mother simply nodded.
“About time. Welcome back, grown-up daughter. Now you know—love isn’t butterflies. It’s being seen. Heard. Valued. And giving the same in return.”
Amelia 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.
