Maybe we're too focused on defining how love is supposed to be conveyed and conceived
Maybe, we're just too blind to see love. Too blind to read between the lines and contradictions and soft whispers exchanged between them. Too deaf to hear the unspoken words and deafening silences that mean both everything and nothing. Too dumb to comprehend the gravity of hidden worries and secret glances and protective stances. Too numb to appreciate little gestures and gradual growth and unconditional affection.
Maybe we're too focused on defining how love is supposed to be conveyed and conceived. We think she doesn't have to try so hard to get his attention. We think it is pathetic for her to wait, wait, and wait with tears and blood for him who hurts her for years. We think if he loves her, blushes have to adorn his cheeks and skinships are needed to make a statement. We think he has to sacrifice more, more, and more for her who waits for him for years.
Maybe we're too arrogant to force our ideals to love. We can't see the significance of unwavering trust and constant hope and undying dedication in her. We can't see the magnitude of the silent apology and endless gratitude and timeless determination in his. We can't see beneath the proud smirks and ghost of a smile and forehead taps. We can't see the softness in his eyes and the slight curl on his lips. We can't see the burning fire in her spirits and understanding gaze on her face.
Maybe we're too hollow to recognize the manifestations of love. Because, who are we to say that no love comes from occasional grunts and narrowed eyes and invisible bonds? Because, who are we to deem that love cannot grow from childish infatuation and mature on harsh terrains and bloom only for one person in a lifetime? Because, who are we to say that love is not there just because we neither see, hear, or feel it?
Maybe one day, we will grow out of our idealism. Maybe we will grow out of social expectations and pre-fabricated romantization of love. Maybe we will grow out of habit of condemning couples and underestimating the magnitude of both loving and being loved.
Maybe one day, we will see that love is there all along. With him brushing her pink locks serenely. With her adding extra tomatoes to his packed lunch. With letters delivered by hawks every once in a while. With connected feelings and mutual support and a family to come home.
And certainly — not "maybe", not "probably", not "possibly" — together, they can endure everything.