Love is one of the first few words we hear after we are born, often whispered softly into our earliest consciousness. Long before we understand it, we are taught what love should look like, how it is given and sometimes, how it is withheld. I have seen babies giggle at the sound of the word, their eyes shining as they look up at their caregivers with awe, unaware of the weight of the word. Perhaps I never fully understood it either.

Growing up, the concept of love was first introduced to me through stories. Some end gently, some abruptly and some linger unfinished. Books and movies offer different definitions, grand gestures, quiet sacrifices, dramatic returns.

They make me wonder: is love universal, or is it shaped by the one who feels it? Can love have one true form, or does it change with every heart it touches?

Sometimes, it paints love as radiant and reciprocal, as if affection always moves in perfect symmetry. Growing up, I believed in this version of love as effortless, balanced and whole. But reality is messier. Love is often uneven, mistimed or sometimes unfinished. Sometimes it returns; sometimes it doesn’t. And yet, it remains love all the same.

I have learned that love does not belong only to romance. Friendships fade, people drift, seasons change. Was that not love too? Letting someone go can be an act of love, even when it hurts. Love is not always possession; sometimes it is letting go.

To me, love has always felt like weather.

It is a gentle drizzle on a cold winter night, quiet and comforting. A warm summer breeze on a sandy beach, familiar and safe. It is the first bloom of spring, fresh, hopeful, full of beginnings. And sometimes, it is like autumn leaves falling softly to the ground, marking an ending that is both beautiful and painful.

And heartbreak feels like rain falling on pavement scattering, seeping into cracks, leaving traces behind. We walk through it, step by step, carrying the weight of what once was.

Some of the deepest loves that I have experienced are the quiet ones. The people you never got a chance to say goodbye to. Parents who let you go so you can pursue your dreams. Love that is painful, freeing and selfless. Love that exists in absence, yet continues to bloom.

Love, I have realized, is too complex to be defined neatly. It is not perfection. It is courage. It is connection. It is allowing yourself to feel deeply, even when it hurts. Something like wearing rose-coloured glasses which does not mean ignoring reality, but choosing to see it with hope, wonder and awe anyway.