**A REASON TO LOVE**
“You’re being awfully sharp,” remarked Henry, watching Alice pack her suitcase. “What’s all this about?”
Alice trailed her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf—the ones he’d 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 didn’t mean anything by it!” 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 show up in it.”
Alice had always dreamed of love as it was in novels. The kind where you meet someone and—just like that—ah, it’s *Him!* Storms of emotion, breaths in sync, tenderness, devotion, and that fabled “spark.” And if there were troubles, 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 reasons. More than one.”
Alice would scoff. “Reasons? Mum, that’s just calculation, not feeling!”
“People only love kittens and babies for no reason. But even a kitten, you’d want to train if it peed in your slippers. And a man? You’ll want someone by your side who cares, who’s your rock. Pretty eyes are nice, but only for starters. What comes after?”
Her mother was right. But Alice hadn’t known that yet.
She searched for her perfect one, ignoring those who stood close. Until one evening, a new bartender appeared at her favorite café. Tall, hazel-eyed, with a voice like velvet. When he poured her a glass of wine that first night and spoke of cherry and vanilla undertones, her heart fluttered.
She fell in love. Properly. Forever. Or so she thought.
“He’s different,” she insisted to her friend. “Brilliant, passionate—not like the rest.”
“He’s a bartender, Alice. An ordinary one. And far too 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 the rent. Not even when she worked two jobs to keep them afloat while he gamed all day.
She endured. She believed. Because with him came that thrilling feeling—passion, desire, the promise of a fairy tale.
But the fairy tale ended fast. Henry wasn’t the sort to invest in love. He wanted to be loved just because. Fed, supported, admired. While he lived for himself. Beautifully, freely. Without responsibilities.
Alice packed in silence. Rain tapped the window. Inside, she felt hollow and bitter.
She remembered: a year ago, tucked in her purse, lay the receipt from their first date. He’d promised it was only the beginning. Turned out, it was the end.
“I was wrong,” she said aloud, to no one. “I mistook desire for love. Now I know—you only love without reason when it’s deserved.”
When Alice returned to her parents, her mother simply nodded.
“Took you long enough. Welcome back, grown-up daughter. Now you know—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. For the first time in ages—hot, strong, undiluted by excuses. And for the first time in ages, she felt at peace.
Sometimes, to love truly, you first have to learn who isn’t worth loving at all.
