Since I was 13 years old, I have reread the Twilight series every summer. And though I know exactly what’s going to happen, every stupid phrase and kiss and swoon-worthy moment, I still feel like it is my first time reading the books.
In an effort to procrastinate studying for finals, I began reading them a little early this year.
And though I have already finished the series and put the books back on their respective place on my shelf, I find myself thinking about when I first started reading the books. How much I wanted a love story like Bella and Edward. How much I yearned for a boy to romanticize my brown eyes or to kiss me under a gazebo decorated in twinkle lights.
You see, for as long as I can remember, I have been consumed with the idea of love.
I don’t really know when this started. It’s hard to pinpoint where the term “love” starts to diverge from something your mom tells you into something you aspire to have.
In kindergarten, I had to create my own country for a school project. I created “Heartlandia,” where the alphabet was different shapes and sizes of hearts, and everyone had to wear pink and red.
In elementary school, my perception of love changed from hearts and bursts of pink and red to something a little more complex. Watching movies like Sleepless in Seattle, Pretty Woman, and A Lot Like Love (some scenes through the spaces of my mother’s fingers) made me associate love with grand gestures and elaborate proclamations. Love, in my eight year old brain, was defined by kisses under stars, laughing at the same jokes, and dramatic “I love you’s” (if he wasn’t standing in the rain, I didn’t want it).
Through middle school and high school, I submerged myself in romcoms and cheesy YA novels. I loved (still love) classic tropes like fake dating, enemies to lovers, and forced proximity (getting stuck in an elevator=meeting your soulmate). I would rewatch TV shows just to see my favorite fictional couples fall in love again and again. I dreamed about what my soulmate looked like, what kind of food he liked, where we would live, etc.
When I was old enough to fall in love myself, it wasn’t like the movies. There were no grand gestures. There were no rain soaked kisses or desperate “I love you’s”. Love in real life, as I have learned, is quieter. It’s softer and warmer than what I imagined it to be. All the little moments like quick glances and shared meals and gentle hand squeezes were the ones I found to be most filled with love. The little moments that don’t always make the cut into the movies.
And I loved being in love. I loved sharing my day with someone and getting to share a part of myself with someone that no one else got to see.
But when my relationship ended, I realized that my definition of love still wasn’t right.
Despite the hundreds of romcoms I have seen and love stories I have read, love doesn’t have to depend on another person. There are so many moments of love that don’t have to include anyone else.
For a long time, I associated the term “in love” with a random boy who would come and sweep me off my feet. And while that still is in the back of my mind (I did say I was love-obsessed), love doesn’t just come from a partner.
For me, love comes from kisses from my dog in the morning. Hugs from my best friend. Phone calls with my mom. The way the light hits my sun-catcher that’s hanging on my window. My little sisters’ bed-head.
My perception of love is constantly changing and growing and evolving. Like me. And though I don’t think of love in the same way as I did five years ago, I still find myself swooning over fictional vampires and thoughts of kissing someone in the rain. I guess some things will always stay the same.