Love Couldn’t Be Defined

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Autumn.

Though she preferred calling it “fall.”

Especially now. The leaves were the same color as what she imagined her emotions to be. Deep crimson and pinks, full and startling and marvelous. She’d been in love before. Or at least, she though she had. But she realized, walking below the branches, gazing at the colors of changing leaves, that what she’d felt before hadn’t been love, exactly. Perhaps deep care or a sense of devotion or commitment.

But “love.” Never.

It had been a term she’d thrown around loosely, in the days leading up to this.

“I’m in love.”

“I love him.”

“He doesn’t know what he’d do without me – he’s in love.”

And it had seemed true enough, when she said it.

Love itself is defined as an intense feeling of deep affection.

She had, had intense feelings. She had known deep affection.

She had never known love. At least, not until now. With him.

Love, she realized finally, couldn’t be defined. Love just…was. Endless and deep and perfect and messy. A feeling so thick that it could intoxicate you, drown you, have its way with you and you had no say.

But that was okay.

Because love doesn’t aim to do away with those it victimizes.

Of this she was suddenly quite certain.

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