everything i know about love (part 1),

which is not much but is all honest!

First, I’d like to apologize for the late letter. I’ve been (terribly) juggling leisure with studying for my finals, and will (hopefully) have my last exam this next week. If all goes right, Delicate will be back on schedule very soon!

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“Love is a quiet, reassuring, relaxing, pottering, pedantic, harmonious hum of a thing; something you can easily forget is there, even though its palms are outstretched beneath you in case you fall.”

from Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Alderton

I’ve never spoken this out loud, but I don’t think I was made for romantic love.

Before you close this tab, this won’t be a depressing, tedious letter about that issue It will mostly be a divagation about love at this corner of my life, prompted by  Dolly Alderton’s Everything I Know About Love . I might divide this into two separate newsletters, if I see that this becomes too long.

Whenever my friends and I would have those equal parts naïve and sincere discussions of “Which one will be the first to have a serious boyfriend?”, “Which one of us will get married first?” or “Who will be the first to have a baby?”, I never made it to the higher rankings. I never made much of a fuss to get in the first place but, looking back now, there was almost this seemingly, unspeakable, agreeable notion that I just didn’t do romantic love, that I wouldn’t be doing it anytime soon. The exact reason is, to this day, unknown.

I’ve had crushes before, two of them, at ages 12 and 16 respectively. At 17, I made a friend that became so close, so intimate, that only when I lost her I realised she might’ve been, probably was, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a first love. I’m 20 and I’ve never had my first kiss, or held hands with someone one could have enough courage to call a significant other. I don’t consider myself as asexual, although I’ve briefly questioned two years ago, only to find far too much uncertainty and anxiety at the thought of a label at that time. Over the years, the meaning of an ‘ideal type’ has lost its significance to me. It has taken so many shapes, beginning with the dark haired, blue-eyed and morally grey villain, to the heartfelt, passionate creator, until it arrived to someone that holds no form but at the very least loves me back.

Making amends (panel 1 and 2) by Holly Warburton

All I know about romantic love has mostly been brewed from the lack of it in my life, and from the realisation that I don’t think I need it to survive. I’ve come so far without it, haven’t I? In the present, writing this, it feels like something unattainable, the peak of a mountain I’ll never be able to climb, but whose view I don’t crave to see anyway. It comes from what I read, see, hear — and, aren’t all those roads that lead to feeling? I have yet to freak out about all this one day. To have one big, eye bawling breakdown that will embarrass me to the point I’ll never be able to speak about it ever again. I can’t imagine myself wearing a ring on my finger, having someone waiting for me after a long day, and it doesn’t shame me, nor sadden me. My life still has love in it somehow, someway.

I also know that, more often than I’d like, a lot of love equals obsession to me. Each month, on the first few days, I’ll wonder what will I obsess over. What are the 3 or so traits, books, series, foods, people that I’ll fall into, let wash over me. For at least 3 months, they’ll be part of my personality, and forever be part of who I am, who I was at some point. This is sort of an inside joke I play with myself, to lighten the mood. But, at 17, when I loved that friend, there was a certain assertion I had one too many times: This person can do no wrong. I can’t name a single flaw she has. I love her more than she will ever love me.

I think you can see from yourself how incorrect all that truly is. Mostly because it isn’t love, it was rather a distant cousin of obsession. It nurtured deep insecurity, a sensation that I was at the same time unworthy of her love and yet cared for her way more than she could, would ever care for me. It took its toll, planted its roots, and still affects me to this day. I put us on a seesaw, and was profoundly reluctant to balance our positions. Later, in the last months leading to us growing apart, I could see many flaws, and they annoyed in 101 different ways. Some I acted upon, some I didn’t. Above all that though was the fact I still loved her, wanted to love her, to keep her in my life. Even when I wasn’t perfect either: in fact, looking back, I had so many toxic, harmful patterns. I’d sometimes leave for one, two weeks without saying a thing, because my emotions would get the best of me and I’d be afraid I’d hurt others with how sensible I felt. Deep down, I knew that the second things became okay again, I’d fall back to that perfect mindset like an addict, drunk on the comfort, the stability it gave me. How wonderful, to not see mistake, to have an upper hand at this thing called love. Eventually, I let her go first, and she slipped away.

Today, I don’t believe in that saying anymore. You can’t have an upper hand on love because love shouldn’t be a challenge to begin with. When you decide to love someone (yes, decide, because love is a choice), you are not putting 7 cards on top of a table and making a bet or a deal. It’s silly to count how many messages in a day you exchange, or how many hours it takes to respond. None of those translate to love anymore.

On the weaker days, I fall into that trap again and again though. I tell myself I’ve been replaced when someone won’t reply to me for a week. Forgotten, let go of. That I no longer mean anything to them when the truth, the reality is much muddier, much more secret. Caught up in all that, I fail too see all of its selfishness. How am I thinking that when I fail to remember the 5 times I didn’t remember to reply to a friend? Or remembered, but didn’t act upon it, postponing it instead to ‘After I finish x’ or ‘When I feel better’ that rarely ever came? I don’t love them any less, but they might love me any less, or so I’m led to believe. How? By what? By who?

I’ll tell you all about it next week. For now, I think that’s enough food for the brain. Don’t worry — I’ll make sure to wrap up, catch up with you at the beginning of the next letter!

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delicacies of the week

• Lipton’s Lemon Black Tea, one of my favourites! I’m a big enthusiast of almost all teas (excluding linden, whose taste probably resembles pee the most of all teas in the world), and I drink them without milk or sugar. This one in particular has the strong kick usual in black tea, but also a summerish sprinkle of lemon that sweetens it.

• Socks. I love socks. I wear socks even in the killer heat. This year, for the first time ever, I had a friend that gifted me socks meant for her ex-girlfriend. They had funny dogs, and they quickly became one of my favourite pairs.

songs of the week: new york by st.vincent, pierre by ryn weaver and never been in love by gatlin || delicate’s spotify playlist!

Thank you for reading delicate :]