As much as I wanna romanticize our first meeting as something cosmic, it wasn’t nearly as romantic as I like to play it out in my head. I had been mooning over a boy that entire weekend, someone who’d been hot and cold with me for nearly two months at that point, and someone I really, really liked. So when I didn’t hear from him on a weekend I was supposed to spend with him, of course it got to me. More than anything, I was in desperate need of a distraction, and meeting him happened to be convenient. Staying long enough to forget whatever was bothering me was exactly what I wanted to do.

And perhaps we got a little carried away. He said all the right things a girl who’d been feeling ignored would wanna hear, things that, let’s face it, he probably didn’t mean. He was likely just trying to win me over in that moment, without the slightest idea that I’d go on to haunt him the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, too.

And as naive and gullible as I can be, I really did believe every stupid thing he said. Of course, looking back now, I realize there’s no way he could’ve meant any of it when he’d only just met me. But I wanted to believe him, and perhaps that was enough for me then.

Little did I know that meeting him that night would change the trajectory of my life in ways I could never have imagined. The very words he probably didn’t mean that night are the words he swears by now. And even if I sometimes find it easier not to believe him anymore, I can’t deny the fact that I feel exactly the same way, if not more.

And if there’s ever a genuine question to be asked about us, it’s probably who liked whom first.

Well, he saw me first. He was curious enough to ask about me, and when he finally got the opportunity to meet me, he took every chance he could to stand as close to me as possible. Lucky for him, I was vulnerable. I needed the validation, something to make up for how humiliated I felt after opening myself up to someone who simply hadn’t returned the same effort. So, in a way, I was merely compensating for one bad decision with another.

But to answer the question, I suppose he liked me first. Not in some profound, life-altering way, of course. He probably liked me the way any man might like a girl he finds attractive, someone he’d wanna have a good time with and perhaps forget about afterwards. I didn’t quite realize that then, but I realize and accept it now. And I suppose there’s nothing particularly wrong with that. Sure, it would’ve been magical if he’d fallen hopelessly in love with me at first sight, beyond all reason and repair, but this wasn’t a movie I was directing, however much I wished it were.

But I liked him, too. I couldn’t quite tell you what it was about him, exactly, but being with him felt nice. There was something about his company that made me wanna stay a little longer. And hearing all those words he probably didn’t mean did something to me, perhaps because I so desperately wanted to believe he meant them. Because, again, I’m a hopeless romantic, and if things had unfolded the way I imagined them in my head, this would’ve been a page straight out of a novel.

So by the time that night was over, I’d somehow convinced myself that he was more than what he really was. Pure delusion, I must say, but it felt good, you know? For a little while, it was nice to believe that something extraordinary had happened to me, even if I’d probably made most of it up in my head.

And then, barely a day after we met, we had a conversation in which he was nothing but honest with me. The kind of honesty that should’ve been enough to bring me back to my senses. And it did, in a way. I knew what the situation was, and I knew there was very little good that could come out of it. But for reasons I still can’t quite explain, I desperately wanted to see him again. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be around him a second time, to reassure myself that I hadn’t imagined how wonderful it had felt the first.

So I went out of my way and made my way back to see him. It was probably the boldest thing I’d ever done for a man I barely knew, and certainly not something I would ordinarily have done. But I think somewhere in my gut, I knew I had to take that chance. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find, or what I expected to come of it, but I knew I would regret not going.

And so I did.

And seeing him again made me happier than I could’ve imagined. There was something so incredibly lovely about being around him, something that made the whole thing feel worth the trouble, even if I knew perfectly well how hopeless the situation was.

So maybe that was when I really began to like him. Or perhaps I already had, and seeing him again only confirmed it.

But it was a hopeless situation, nonetheless.

And then the months began to pass. I didn’t see him very often, but I heard from him every single day. And as sweet as that was, somewhere along the way, I began to accept the reality of what this was. I convinced myself that it was only a matter of time before we’d stop talking, that whatever this little thing between us was would eventually run its course. I suppose I was slowly making peace with the idea of losing something I never really had in the first place.

And just when I’d begun to settle into that thought, he did something incredibly sweet. The kind of thing you do when you really, really like someone. Something so thoughtful and unexpected that it made me question whether I’d been wrong about how little this all meant to him.

And just like that, I was pulled right back in.

More months would pass, and eventually, I would come to learn that somewhere along the way, he had apparently fallen for me. I say apparently because I still find myself refusing to believe it sometimes. Not necessarily because I think he’s lying, but because not believing him makes everything a little easier to bear. There’s a certain comfort in convincing yourself that something isn’t quite as meaningful to the other person, because then perhaps losing it won’t feel nearly as devastating.

But I never asked him when it happened. When liking me became something more, when whatever he thought this would be turned into something neither of us quite knew what to do with. And I suppose, if I ever did ask, the answer would be much later than that first night, much later than all the things I’d so foolishly convinced myself meant something.

So, who liked whom first?

I think he did, although perhaps not in the meaningful way I would’ve liked to believe. He was curious about me first, attracted to me first, and perhaps he was the one who first wanted something to happen between us. But I think I was the one who gave it meaning long before there was any reason to. I liked him genuinely from the beginning, even if meeting him had initially been nothing more than an attempt to escape the disappointment of someone else.

And somewhere along the way, what began as a convenient distraction became something I could no longer distract myself from.

Perhaps that’s the irony of it all. I walked into his life looking for a way to forget someone else, while he probably walked into mine expecting nothing more than a fleeting encounter. Neither of us could’ve possibly known that months later, we’d find ourselves here, feeling things we probably never intended to feel, and struggling with the weight of something that was never supposed to become this meaningful.

And I suppose that’s what makes me wonder whether there was something a little serendipitous about it after all.

Because had I not walked by that day, he would never have seen me. Had he not been curious enough to ask about me, perhaps he would’ve forgotten me altogether. And had I not stopped there a few nights later, on a night when I was desperately trying to forget someone else, we would never have met.

So many little things had to happen exactly as they did for our paths to cross. Things that seemed entirely insignificant at the time, decisions made without a second thought, moments that could so easily have gone another way.

And perhaps none of it was cosmic. Perhaps it was nothing more than a series of coincidences, two people in the same place at the right time, for entirely different reasons.

But isn’t that what serendipity is, after all? Finding something beautiful without ever setting out to look for it.

And maybe the most extraordinary part of our story isn’t that we were somehow destined to meet, but that neither of us knew we were about to become so important to someone we hadn’t even meant to find.

I went looking for a distraction, and somehow found someone I would spend the next several months wishing I could have a little more of.

And how terribly bittersweet it is, that something I never meant to happen has become something I wish didn’t have to end.

Leaving feels bittersweet, and if anything, it only gets harder and harder each time. It’s not just the distance that makes it difficult, but how terribly unfortunate it all is, too.

How can I possibly tell you just how much I’ve enjoyed every minute I’ve spent with you? I find myself struggling to find the words that would do justice to all the incredible ways you’ve made me feel, often through the tiniest things you do. Things you probably don’t even think twice about, but that somehow mean the world to me.

Although, yes, some of it has been equally heartbreaking, too. But I knew what I was getting myself into, even if we keep getting carried away every now and then, allowing ourselves to forget, however briefly, the reality of what this is.

I find myself reasoning with fate, asking why it had to happen like this. How can the one wonderful thing that happens to me also have to be the most unfortunate thing? How can I feel love so deeply, and have it reciprocated, yet never truly get to hold on to it? How can something feel so right and still be so terribly wrong?

I guess that’s the beauty of this love, if there’s any beauty to be found in something so unfortunate. How all we can ever do is yearn for something we can never truly have. Or maybe we isn’t quite the right word. Maybe all I can ever do is yearn for something I can never truly have. And what a devastating reality that is.

I hear stories of people who have experienced incredible loves in their lifetimes, who have fallen in love, gotten married, had children, and built entire lives with someone they adore. And I can’t help but feel a little sorry for myself, because at this age, I’ve never quite experienced anything as remarkable. Not even once. Sure, I’ve met some amazing people, and I’ve had relationships filled with so much potential, too. But none of them ever quite worked out. And it isn’t even just the fact that they didn’t work out. It’s that none of those experiences, however meaningful they may have been at the time, even come close to what I’ve begun to feel today.

Although, to be fair, for a large part of my life, I never really thought about settling down. Either that, or I had immense commitment issues. I could never quite be certain that I would feel the same way about someone the next day, let alone for the rest of my life. The thought of forever was always a little too overwhelming, and perhaps I never really understood what it meant to want someone enough to imagine one.

Anyhow, I suppose a part of me has always considered myself a little unlucky for never having experienced something so profoundly meaningful in my life. Looking back, there’s so little I feel I can truly hold on to. And now that I’m finally experiencing something that feels this extraordinary, I find myself making comparisons I probably shouldn’t.

Because when I look at his life, and then at mine, I feel as though I bring with me almost nothing. There’s so much wholesomeness in his past, and even in his present. So many beautiful experiences, so much love, so many memories, and an entire life that has been built around things I’ve barely even come close to experiencing. And then there’s me, with all these years behind me and so little of that kind of happiness to show for them.

I can’t help but feel like a bit of a loser sometimes. Or perhaps I’m just jealous. Jealous that there’s so much wonderfulness in other people’s lives while I find myself with so little of it in mine. And as awful as it sounds, sometimes it even makes me feel a little less of a woman. As though there’s something about womanhood, about being loved and chosen and building a life with someone, that everyone else seems to have experienced in ways I somehow missed out on.

And I know how terribly unfair that is to myself. I know that a woman’s worth could never be measured by whether she has been loved, married, or made a mother. I know that life isn’t a race, and that there’s no particular age by which we must have experienced certain things for our lives to have been meaningful. I know all of that, at least in theory. But knowing something and being able to convince your heart of it are two entirely different things.

Sometimes I wish I could have this conversation with someone whose life I secretly envy, someone who has experienced all the wonderful things I’ve spent so much of my life wondering about. Maybe they could ease my nerves, quiet all this negativity, and reassure me that life has a way of working things out for everyone in its own time. That just because something hasn’t happened for me yet doesn’t mean it never will. And that perhaps I haven’t missed out on life as much as I sometimes convince myself I have.

Because I do believe that, somewhere deep down. I believe that what’s meant for us will find its way to us, even if it takes a little longer than we would have liked.

But I suppose what makes this particularly heartbreaking is that, for the first time in my life, I’ve found myself wanting things I never thought I would. Things I used to be so uncertain about suddenly feel like the most natural things in the world to want. And perhaps that’s the cruelest part of it all. To finally meet someone who makes you understand the beauty of a life you never quite imagined for yourself, only to realise that the very person who awakened that longing in you may never be the one you get to share it with.

And I wonder if that’s what makes leaving so difficult each time. It isn’t simply having to say goodbye to someone I’ve grown so terribly fond of. It’s having to leave behind, over and over again, the little life I get to pretend is mine whenever I’m with him. A life that feels so wonderfully ordinary in those fleeting moments, and yet remains so painfully out of reach.

Perhaps what hurts most is knowing that I finally understand what it feels like to want a forever, only to find it in something that was never promised one.

He says, “Ana, I love you,” almost in disbelief that I wouldn’t know it already.

It didn’t sound like a confession. More like a devastating fact, stated in utter defeat. Three words that were supposed to carry so much happiness now carried a tune of melancholy and hopelessness instead.

Because how did this happen? How did we get here?

And the words that followed only made it heavier.

“I love you, Ana, and I don’t know what to do.”

Ouch.

Well, what was I expecting?

I wish hearing it had simply made me happy. I wish I could have dwelled in the fact that he said it at all. And for a moment, I did. I was in seventh heaven for all of a second before I came crawling back down to face the truth of it all.

How could I not be happy to hear those words from someone I’d begun to view as larger than life?

But, of course, the ache was inevitable. The yearning. The reality of what those words mean for us. Somewhere between the happiness of hearing them and the hopelessness of what followed, even the words themselves became something I didn’t quite know what to do with.

Because, as Naina says in Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, “I love you” is only the beginning. After that, those same two people have to figure out how to carry the weight of those three words.

Maybe that is where we are now. Trying to carry them.

Or perhaps still trying to figure out whether any of this is love at all. Because what even is love, right?

Sometimes I wonder whether he really does love me, or whether it’s just a buzz that catches him every now and then. A feeling that resembles love enough in the moment to call it that.

And then there is whatever it is that I feel for him.

I know it is something enormous. I know he matters to me far more than I ever intended him to. I consider him in ways that have become almost instinctive. I remember the smallest things he tells me. I think about what would make him happy, what would make things easier for him, what might make his day a little better. His happiness makes me happy. When he isn’t okay, it unsettles something in me too.

I don’t know whether that is love either.

But I do know that if I were ever to be loved, that is how I would want someone to love me.

Completely. Irrevocably.

To be considered. Remembered. Thought of when I am not there. Cared for beyond convenience. To have someone notice the weight on my shoulders and instinctively want to make it lighter. Someone for whom my sadness matters simply because it is mine.

Because I think love is deeper than saying the words. Love is consuming, or at least I have always imagined it to be. It is caring about another person enough that their pain reaches you, that knowing they are not okay unsettles you, that you find yourself wanting to carry things that were never yours simply because you don’t want them carrying everything alone.

And maybe that is where my confusion begins.

Sometimes I look at the way he cares for me and think that perhaps he does feel for me the way I feel for him. Other times, I wonder whether I feel more. Whether whatever this is has taken up more space inside me than it has inside him.

Maybe that is an impossible thing to measure. Maybe two people can feel something equally significant and experience it in completely different ways. But still, I wonder.

Perhaps I wonder because, underneath everything, I just want to be loved.

I want the kind of love that makes life feel a little lighter. Someone to hold me while the world burdens me. Someone who cares that I am hurting, not because they are responsible for fixing it, but simply because the fact that I hurt matters to them.

Maybe there is still a terribly naive part of me that wants love to drive some of the pain away. To make life softer. To give me somewhere to put everything down for a while.

All I have ever wanted is to be loved. And loved, somehow, is the one thing I have always struggled to believe I could be.

Maybe that is why the word itself means so little to me now.

Life has made me anxious and distrustful. Somewhere along the way, “love” lost its spark. It has been overused, lied about, promised carelessly and attached to things that looked nothing like love. I have heard it enough times to know that saying it does not necessarily tell you the depth of what someone feels.

And then there is him.

He makes me feel things I cannot quite find the words for. Naturally, “love” comes to mind, but even that feels strange to say. Sometimes it feels too big an admission. Other times, strangely, it feels like too small a word for whatever this is.

Because I don’t know if I love him.

And despite the fact that he tells me he does, I don’t entirely know if he loves me either.

I only know how I feel when I am with him, how instinctively I think of him when I am not, and how quietly he has come to matter to me in ways I never intended.

And sometimes I wonder if I matter to him in all those same ways too.