A Question of Love

I had been pacing my room for the past hour, the floor creaking softly under my restless steps. Outside, the night was quiet, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. My phone lay on the desk, screen dark, but it might as well have been staring at me, daring me to pick it up.

I had been thinking about her for days. Not in the usual way—her laughter, her way of tucking her hair behind her ear, or the way her eyes seemed to hold entire conversations without saying a word. No, this was different.

I was trying to understand why I loved her.

It wasn’t the kind of love that bursts forth, loud and consuming. It was quieter, like a steady hum in the background of my life. It was in the way I noticed the small things about her—how she always chose the corner seat in a café or how she would pause mid-sentence to find the perfect word.

But the more I thought about it, the more I questioned myself. Did I have the right to love her?

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The first time I met her, she was sitting in the library, a book in her hands and a pencil tucked behind her ear. I had walked past her table, trying not to stare, but she had looked up and caught me mid-step.

“Looking for something?” she had asked, her voice soft but confident.

“Just... a book,” I had stammered, feeling like an idiot.

She had smiled then, a small, knowing smile, and gestured to the shelves behind her. “Plenty of those here.”

It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t even love at second or third sight. It was something that grew over time, like a plant you didn’t realize you were watering until it had taken root.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, running a hand through my hair. Why did I love her? Was it because she made the world seem a little less heavy? Or because she had a way of making the mundane feel magical?

But then came the second question, the one that had been gnawing at me: Did I have the right to love her?

She didn’t owe me anything. She hadn’t asked for my affection, hadn’t invited me into her world in the way I wanted to be there. She was kind, yes, but kindness wasn’t an invitation. It was just who she was.

I remembered the time she had talked about her dreams. We had been sitting on a park bench, the sun setting behind us.

“I want to travel,” she had said, her eyes lighting up. “Not just to see places, but to understand them. To feel the stories they hold.”

I had nodded, hanging on to every word.

“What about you?” she had asked, turning the question back to me.

“I... I want to write,” I had said, though it felt insignificant compared to her grand plans.

“Then write,” she had replied simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the empty street. Loving her felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall would hurt but unable to step back.

Maybe love wasn’t about having a right. Maybe it was about giving, about feeling, about letting yourself be vulnerable even when there were no guarantees.

But even as I thought that, a part of me held back. What if she didn’t feel the same? What if my love was a burden she didn’t want to carry?

The phone buzzed, breaking my thoughts. A message from her.

“Hey, are you awake?”

My heart skipped a beat. I picked up the phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Yeah,” I typed back. “What’s up?”

Her reply came almost instantly. “Nothing. Just couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d say hi.”

I stared at the screen, a small smile tugging at my lips.

“Hi,” I replied, my heart a little lighter.

In that moment, I realized something. Maybe I didn’t need to have the right to love her. Maybe it was enough to care, to be there, to let her know she wasn’t alone.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what love was all about.