A REASON TO LOVE
“You’re being so sharp all of a sudden,” 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’d dismissively called “chick lit nonsense.”
“Do you remember when you promised to teach me about wine?”
“And?”
“Exactly,” she said flatly, tossing the flat key onto the table. “Nothing. As usual.”
“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, Henry. And I’m tired of waiting for you to be part of it.”
Alice had always dreamed of love like in the novels—instant, electric, consuming. That moment of meeting someone and just knowing: *This is him.* Passion, tenderness, care, 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 had once said gently. “Real love needs a reason. More than one.”
Alice had rolled her eyes. “A *reason*? That’s just calculation, not love!”
“You only love kittens and babies ‘just because.’ But even a kitten needs training if it keeps ruining your slippers. And a man? You’ll want someone who cares, who supports you. Handsome eyes are nice, but they’re just the start. What comes after?”
Her mother was right. But Alice hadn’t known that yet.
She searched for her perfect man, blind to those who actually tried. Until one evening, in her favourite café, a new bartender appeared—tall, dark-eyed, with a voice like velvet. That first night, when he poured her a glass of wine and spoke of hints of cherry and vanilla, her heart stuttered.
She was in love. Properly. Forever. Or so she thought.
“He’s different,” she insisted to her best friend. “Talented, passionate, not like the others.”
“He’s a bartender, Alice. An ordinary one. And way too 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 guitar instead of rent. Not when she worked two jobs to keep them afloat while he lost whole days to online gaming.
She endured. She believed. Because with him, she felt that dizzying rush—desire, attraction, the promise of magic.
But the magic didn’t last. Henry wasn’t the type to invest in anything, least of all love. He wanted to be adored, fed, indulged—without effort, without giving anything back. He lived for himself. Beautifully, freely. Without responsibility.
Silently, Alice zipped up her suitcase. Rain tapped against the window. Inside her, only hollowness and regret.
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 only love ‘just because’ when they’ve earned it.”
When she returned to her parents’ house, her mother simply nodded.
“Finally. Welcome back, my grown-up girl. Now you see—love isn’t butterflies. It’s being seen. Heard. Valued. And giving the same in return.”
Alice sat at the kitchen table and poured 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 properly, you first have to learn who isn’t worth loving at all.
