10/06/2026
IF I SAT NEXT TO LOVE
If I sat next to Love,
I imagine it would be in a dimly lit bar where the jukebox keeps replaying old heartbreaks and the bartender has forgotten the difference between medicine and whiskey.
Love would arrive late, wearing a smile that has ruined kingdoms and healed them too.
It would sit beside me, order a bottle of something strong, and pour two glasses without asking what I preferred.
Because somehow, Love always assumes it knows.
I'd raise my glass.
"To what?" it would ask.
"To surviving you."
And for the first time all night, Love would laugh.
We'd drink.
Silence would settle between us like an old friend.
Then I'd ask:
"Why do you always seem so far away?"
Love would swirl its drink, watching the liquid chase itself around the glass.
"Because," it would say, "humans keep looking for me in destinations.
I was never a place. I was always a journey."
I'd take a long sip.
Not because I understood, but because I didn't.
Then I'd ask:
"Why are you so sweet and hurtful at the same time?"
Love would stare into the bottom of its glass.
"Because every beautiful thing comes with the risk of losing it.
The sweetness is proof that it mattered.
The pain is proof that it was real."
I wouldn't like that answer.
I'd drink anyway.
Outside, the rain would tap the windows like someone trying to get back in.
And then I'd ask the question I've carried in my chest for years.
The question that keeps me awake long after midnight has retired.
"Why does everyone I love leave?"
Love would stop smiling.
The music would seem quieter.
Even the bottles behind the counter would listen.
Then Love would say:
"Not everyone leaves because of you.
Some leave because they are lost.
Some leave because they are afraid.
Some leave because they were only meant to teach you something.
And some..."
Love pauses.
"Some leave because staying would have destroyed both of you."
I would look away.
Toward the door.
Toward all the ghosts who once promised forever.
Toward every goodbye that still echoes inside me.
"But why do I keep meeting people whose footsteps are temporary?"
Love would refill my glass.
"Because permanence is not what makes a person valuable.
The sunset leaves every evening, yet people still stop to admire it."
That one would hurt.
The way truth often does.
We'd finish the bottle slowly.
Two strangers who know each other too well.
Then before leaving, I'd ask one final question.
"When will I find the kind of love that stays?"
Love would stand, put on its coat, and place some money on the counter.
Then it would lean closer and whisper:
"The day you stop measuring love by how long it remains and start measuring it by how deeply it transforms you.
And when the right one arrives, you won't have to chase them.
They'll sit beside you, through every season, and help you finish the bottle."
Love would leave.
The door would close.
The night would continue.
And there I'd sit, alone with the last drop of whiskey, wondering if Love had paid the bill,
or simply left me with another lesson.
Either way,
for the first time,
I wouldn't feel abandoned.
Just unfinished.
