I LOVE YOU, TOO

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The first time you told me you loved me, I didn’t say it back. It was rushed, squeezed in with a goodbye as we went our separate ways after getting back from the lake. “I love you, see you at dinner,” you said. Caught off guard, my first thought was that the lake water had somehow seeped into my brain when I wasn’t paying attention. I managed to reply with some form of “Okay yup” before hopping hurriedly out of the van. 

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On the walk back to the cabin, I attempted to remain calm, whipping out my phone as soon as I was away from the prying eyes of others. “He just told me he loved me after we’ve only been officially dating for two weeks,” I frantically typed to a friend. “What the fuck do I do?” 

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Only fifteen days prior had we finally had the “If you wanted to officially be my boyfriend I wouldn’t hate that” conversation, and I was still euphoric about it. We’d been dancing around each other for ten months already, me knowing you wouldn’t make a move but too scared to do it myself. Which is exactly why I was so surprised to hear you say “I love you” after two short weeks. 

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I wondered if it was an accident. If you’d used it the same way it often is – a giggly “aw thanks I love you” from a friend opening a gift, a begrudged “I love you” when you don’t want to end a fight on a bad note, an emotionless “I love you” from a sibling when told to apologize. Automatic. Thoughtless. The worry settled deep and sour in my stomach as I wrestled with the fact that I wanted to say it back so badly. That I didn’t know how. 

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“I thought the issue was him saying it,” I remember telling my friend later. “That is not the issue. The issue is [long pause] the issue is me feeling that and being sixteen. And a child. And…I don't even know what that is. That’s not– [another long pause] I’m not allowed. But also…hmm.” Looking back on my feeble attempt to process this, it’s almost impossible not to laugh. I’m still the only person that ever believed I wasn’t allowed to love you.

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In the days after I freaked out over those three words, I was haunted by the memory of a boy who’d uttered them to me before. I could feel the ghosts of who we once were, always one step behind me, a constant reminder of how little I’d known of love. The “love” we’d shared was entirely surface-level, two teenagers tossed into a whirlwind and spit back out in a world where things were shiny and pretty and neither of us were forced to confront reality. A world where I wasn’t forced to wonder why I felt like I had to jump into something so quickly. A world that I knew would inevitably shatter around me. I know now that’s not what love is. Love doesn’t last in a world built to be temporary. 

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When he texted me a year and a half after our painfully awkward FaceTime breakup to tell me he still loved me and hadn't been able to date anyone else, crediting me with his motivation to become a better person, my skin crawled. I didn’t want this; I didn’t want to be loved by someone I couldn’t stand. Someone who made me feel like the asshole for ending a shitty, codependent relationship while my home life crumbled around me. I was livid with him for claiming to love me. And yet, with the gift of hindsight, I realize I’ve been where he stood too. 

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For seven years, my best friend and I were inseparable. For 2,555 days, I’d felt loved and supported and understood. We’d gossiped endlessly. We’d danced together and run together and been each others’ biggest cheerleaders. I held her as she sobbed over her parents’ impending divorce, and she’d sheltered me from the constant turmoil that had wrecked my house and family for nearly two years. We’d lost and laughed and lived and loved together. 

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One day in May, the person I thought I knew better than anyone decided she was no longer up to the task of being my friend. The person I had loved was gone, and I could do nothing but break, even with no one there to pick up the pieces. I blamed myself. I cried myself to sleep over a girl who couldn’t bring herself to look me in the eyes. I refused to eat. I told myself it would’ve been easier if she’d died. I didn’t tell anyone. 

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Not a month after this, when you said those three words to me, I had yet to regain trust in myself. I’d burned and been burned, and I was terrified. I wasn’t sure I even deserved to be loved, and if I was willing to admit I loved you, that would mean having to let you love me too. The thing is, I wanted to. I wanted to relinquish the broken parts of myself and take yours in return. I needed to believe there were people in this world who wanted me in their lives. I needed someone to tell me that it was going to be okay when I was falling apart, to walk with me when I couldn’t see one step ahead, to make me laugh when I hadn’t smiled in days, and to lean against when I couldn’t bear to hold myself up any longer. To tell me they loved me when I thought I didn’t deserve to hear it. 

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There’s beauty in that, in mending each other piece by piece. Every subtle touch, every day spent listening to One Direction in the car with our hands intertwined, and every kiss on a counter at four in the morning is one more stitch over my broken little heart and one more way I learn how to love you.

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Later that night, as I lay on a weathered basketball court with my hand in yours, lake water drying in my hair, I realized I had no reason to be afraid. I have not loved you the same way my whole life, nor do I love you the same way I did in June, but for the first time, I think I understand what the poets mean when they write about being “truly, madly, crazy deeply in love.” 

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So, Tyler, if you’re reading this, I love you, too.