in my earliest recollection of understanding what it means to love, my father told me that to love is a verb. love is something that you do for others, and it is shown in actions. his examples mainly applied to familial love—my mom preparing lunch and dinner for us every day, spending time with one another and playing board games, and asking about our days. for many years, this understanding was enough. i loved my parents in listening to them and in being a “good” kid, whatever that entailed. being of service when needed, taking care of my chores and responsibilities.
when i got older and started to grow fond of friends and started to feel things for some other of my classmates, things got more confusing. i would liberally tell my friends “i love you!” before saying goodbye, post on their profiles for their birthdays with those three words plastered all over my text. and to this, my dad’s words echoed in my head: love is a verb. if love is a verb, then how is it that i am loving my best friend or my niece that’s a year older than me? if love is a verb, then how am i loving my cousins?
i love you started to dilute into “i appreciate you” and “i am fond of you,” but the older i got even those words felt too strong. and if what i felt for them wasn’t love, then what was it?
now i think that the meaning of love changes as we grow up. in our early years, it’s usually our parents, siblings, or other close mentors that we find ourselves vocalizing this to. our early teens get closer and we love our friends—because they are there when we argue with our parents, or when we start to feel self-aware, and they are there when we want to talk about our feelings with the right amount of immaturity to just listen.
we find our first love and we love them because we had never felt anything like this for anyone else before. they’re special in that way, in how they make us feel nervous and giggly, how they become constantly present in our minds. we grow older, and our first love usually becomes our first broken heart. if we’re lucky, it ends well. if we’re not, it ends in bitterness.
but then comes the love of early adulthood. if you are in a relationship, then it means navigating what it means to spend your time with another person, and how you fit into each other’s plans. in your friendships love comes to be understood as who you call when you’re stranded at a store and can’t find a way to get home, in “text me when you get home!” yelled out the door, and in artwork that you share with one another. “i found this art, and it made me think of you!”
i love you stops being spoken to your friends as you grow in life, and it turns into more of a verb—you say it in the things that you do and don’t do, in open invitations to spend the night on your couch if it ever is too late to go home, in sharing a drink when you’re out and bringing each other some fruit and snacks to share. i love you becomes so much broader and so much more silent, it becomes whispered rather than screamed, and in this whisper it becomes so much stronger. it becomes tender and understanding, its passion more easily subdued. it becomes more common, a part of your daily routine. you fall a little bit in love with strangers every day, and they shape you by existing with you for those few moments.
so when i tell you to text me when you get home, or when i get food for you and pour you a drink, when i turn my couch into a bed for you to sleep in and when i call you to talk about what’s been on my mind while i’m driving—i’m telling you that i love you. i love you in the common, daily way that humans do, in the way that we care for each other and listen closely. i love you in the way that words don’t really convey, not because it’s that strong and fiery—but because it’s indescribably tender and warm.