A woman fancies a man. She fancies him dearly—his charm, his presence, it all draws her in. She believes what she feels is love.
But it gnaws at her. He doesn’t return her affections, though she tries everything to catch his eye: playful little laughs, lingering glances, excuses to chat, even undoing the top button of her blouse. Nothing works.
Worse still, he starts paying attention to another colleague—a plain, ordinary woman, older than him. He lingers in conversation with her, fetches her coffee from the vending machine, watches her with warmth in his eyes. Soon, he’s giving her lifts home in his car. And she doesn’t even drive! How could this be? The woman in love is younger, prettier—obviously the better choice. Yet he doesn’t fancy her back.
The truth is simple. This lovestruck woman knows nothing—nor cares to know—about the man she’s so taken with. Oh, she knows he’s single, that his salary is more than decent, his suits expensive, his car flashy. That’s it. Nothing else about him interests her.
It’s the *idea* of him she craves—handsome, magnetic, someone to fall into, to marry, to claim as her own.
So what on earth does he talk about with that dull woman? Texts, calls, sitting in his car for ages just chatting. That’s not love, surely? That’s just talk.
But love *is* talk. It’s knowing someone so deeply you grasp their thoughts before they finish speaking. Laughing at their jokes halfway through because you already *know*. It’s never running out of things to say because you speak the same language. It’s caring—truly, endlessly—about everything that makes them *them*.
Did he eat? How’s his dad’s treatment going? His back still bothering him? Remember that old *Jason and the Argonauts* film with the clay monsters? Wear your coat, there’s a chill today. Did you ever play rounders at school?
And that line from Maugham—remember? Look, the leaves have turned yellow, like old letters and photographs. My violet’s finally bloomed—years without a flower, and now look at it. You were in the gardening club at school, weren’t you? That time your cactus flowered, you were so chuffed.
Let me feel your forehead—are you feverish? You feel warm. Wear your hat; it’s windy.
And then I’ll hug you. Because you’re why I breathe. You’re mine, and I’m yours.
To an outsider, it’s just noise. Nonsense. Childish babble. But to those who love, it’s a language all their own.
The lovestruck woman cared only for herself—for her hunger, her craving to possess what she called “love.” But possession isn’t love.
Music you don’t understand will never move you. Poetry that baffles you will never speak to your soul. And a person you don’t *know*—truly know—can never belong to you, no matter how badly you want them. No amount of batting eyelashes or undone buttons will spark love if there’s no understanding beneath it.
At best, you might spark desire in someone just as hollow. But then what? You’re left with a stranger, with nothing to say.
You can adore a swan—feed it, protect it, admire its grace. Or, like Henry VIII, you can roast it, make pâté, devour it. The hunger eases, but then what? Where’s the swan now?
Some people don’t understand others—or love itself. They undo buttons, they coax and charm, and sometimes, they trap their swan. But without true connection, it’s just fleeting satisfaction.
Explaining it to them is useless. They’ll never get it.
Author: Anna Kiryanova.
