Chapter Ten – The Truth About Love
The light continued lowering.
Soon the warmth would leave the clearing.
They both knew they could not remain there indefinitely.
Perhaps that knowledge made honesty easier.
Temporary places often encouraged permanent truths.
The young woman sat once more on the stone.
The young man lowered himself beside her.
Their shoulders touched this time.
Neither moved away.
“What do you think love is?” she asked.
He looked at her suspiciously.
“That sounds like a trap.”
“It may be.”
“I need clearer rules.”
“There are none.”
“That has historically gone badly for me.”
She smiled.
Then waited.
He looked ahead.
“Love is…” He paused. “Dangerous answer.”
“Try.”
He rested his hands together.
His injured forearm remained protected between them.
“I used to think love meant being necessary.”
She turned slightly.
“To someone?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“And now?”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Now I think love might be wanting someone to remain themselves even when being themselves means they can leave you.”
She said nothing.
The maturity of the answer frightened her because it arrived too late to belong to the past and too early to belong to any possible future.
“What about you?” he asked.
She looked ahead.
“I used to think love meant staying.”
He listened.
“No matter what?”
“Especially when things were difficult.”
“That sounds dangerous too.”
“It was.”
“And now?”
She rubbed her thumb across the edge of her scarf.
“Now I think leaving can sometimes be loving.”
He flinched slightly.
She noticed.
“I didn’t mean you.”
“Maybe you should.”
“No.”
She turned toward him.
“You leaving wasn’t love.”
He accepted that.
“It may have been motivated by love,” she continued, “but it wasn’t loving.”
He nodded slowly.
“There’s a difference.”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making the distinction.”
She studied him.
“You don’t have to turn every painful sentence into a lesson.”
“I’m trying not to waste them.”
“That sounds like something your mother would say.”
He laughed quietly.
“She would hate that comparison.”
“Then I approve.”
Their shoulders remained touching.
The contact had become natural.
She realised this with some alarm.
Bodies adapted quickly to familiarity.
Even after years.
Perhaps especially after years.
He turned toward her.
“Can I ask you something unfair?”
“You usually do.”
“Did you love anyone after me?”
She looked at him.
He immediately added, “You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.”
She considered lying.
Not to protect him.
To protect the fragile atmosphere between them.
Then she decided honesty deserved honesty.
“Yes.”
His face changed only slightly.
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
The answer hurt him.
She saw it.
He did not make it her problem.
That mattered.
“Were you happy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did they treat you well?”
“Yes.”
He looked relieved.
That surprised her.
“You wanted them to?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
His brows lifted.
“Because I loved you.”
The past tense entered the air.
She heard it.
So did he.
Neither knew whether it was accurate.
He continued.
“I didn’t want your life to become smaller because I left it.”
She looked away.
“What about you?”
He smiled faintly.
“That question feels earned.”
“Did you love anyone?”
“No.”
She frowned.
“No one?”
“I tried.”
“That isn’t healthy.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Sorry.”
She laughed.
Then grew serious.
“Why not?”
He took time before answering.
“Because I kept waiting to feel something that belonged to the present.”
She understood.
“And everything felt like comparison?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“Later I stopped trying.”
She looked at him.
“That’s sad.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t romanticise it.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
Their eyes met.
The gaze lasted.
Soft.
Direct.
Unprotected.
The visible scene reached its emotional centre without changing a single physical fact.
A wound had been treated.
Two people looked at each other.
Yet behind the gaze stood years of absence, letters never sent, grief inherited from families, and love slowly being stripped of possession.
For the first time, neither of them looked away.
