When he told me that he loved me, I told him that he was lying. I told him that he didn't understand love and he told me that I didn't understand his love.
For me love was long handwritten letters while his stood amidst the early 'good morning darling' followed by tiny emojis of hugs and kisses.
For me love was observing, listening, understanding and while his was to share every bit from his life. I never did that, I never thought anyone would be interested in my monotonous life stories but here I was, becoming a part of his life.
For me love was 'i love you' and while his love was 'how are you'.
For me love was to be a little possessive and maybe at times aggressive, while his love was liberating and letting me to explore the sides of me that i never knew existed.
And even though we try to understand our love, we keep getting lost in our translations like the last time I met him and we were going down the elevator after a happy meal, we stood there like strangers until we reached the ground floor. Seven days later, I asked him why didn't he hold my hand, and does he not want me anymore? And he told me that he was just trying to disconnect from all the beautiful moments we had because he knew we wouldn't meet for the next few months until he came back to my city. For me love was touch, it was enclosures, it was being entangled and while his love was to give us space, to grow. His love was to let my insecurities beautifully fit into the spaces he owned, entangling us and enclosing us, together and tighter.
We don't speak the same language of love, we barely understand it but when our lips meet, they speak words and emotions that could never be written.
We don't speak the same language of love, but we try to understand our love, our love for each other.