What Is the Meaning of Love?

A Question on an Ordinary Day

It was on a Tuesday morning, of all days, that Mara asked the question.

We were sitting on a park bench in the middle of the city, wrapped in scarves and surrounded by the golds and reds of late autumn. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their leaves gently drifting down like slow, graceful confessions. The air was crisp, and the coffee in our hands was already starting to cool.

Then, out of nowhere, she turned to me and said:

“What is the meaning of love?”

I blinked, unsure if I heard her correctly. She wasn't looking at me, just straight ahead, her eyes following the path of a squirrel darting through the leaves.

I gave a small laugh - not because the question was funny, but because it felt so sudden and so... unlike her.

Mara was a planner. She lived by spreadsheets and bullet journals, believed in logic over impulse, in evidence over emotion. So for her to ask something si open-ended, so abstract, felt like watching the ocean ask the wind where it came from.

Moments We Never Question

"What brought that on?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just... I've been thinking. People say it all the time. 'I love you.' 'Love hurts.' 'Love heals.' But what does it actually mean?"

I looked at her. Really looked. There was something behind her words - a weariness, maybe. Or a longing. Or perhaps just the quiet ache of someone realizing that they've gone through much of life reciting a language they never truly understood.

I didn't answer right away.

How could I? Philosophers have debated the meaning of love for centuries. Poets have tried to define it in ink. Scientists in neurotransmitters. Religions in parables. And still, the question remains unanswered - perhaps because it's not a question meant to be solved.

But Mara waited. Not impatiently. Just openly.

And somehow, that made me want to try.

What We Remember

"I think love," I said, choosing my words slowly, "isn't something you can define in one go. It's something you collect over time - in moments."

She glanced at me, curious.

"I remember being eight," I continued, "and waking up in the middle of the night with a fever. My mom sat with me, pressed a cold cloth to my forehead, and didn't sleep until I did. She never said 'I love you' that night. But I feel it."

Mara listened, silent.

"I remember my dad," I said, "a man who doesn't talk much. One time, I mentioned my car was making a weird noise. The next morning, he showed up in my driveway with a toolbox. Fixed it without saying a word about why he came. That was love too."

Not the Words, But the Weight

"So you're saying love is... actions?" she asked.

"Yes. But not grand gestures. Not movie scenes. It's in the quiet things. The consistent things. Love is someone showing up when they don't have to. Listening when you don't even know how to speak. It's the way someone remembers the things you forget about yourself."

Mara leaned back on the bench, her eyes searching the sky.

"So it's not the butterflies or the passion," she murmured. "It's the staying."

I smiled. "Exactly. The butterflies fade. The staying doesn't."

What Love Isn't

Love isn't possession.

It's not control or perfection.

It's not always soft or easy or sweet.

Sometimes, love is letting go - of pride, of resentment, of someone you no longer align with.

Sometimes, love is boundaries, saying "no" because you care enough to protect both of you.

Sometimes, love is grieving - because you dared to love at all.

The Love We Miss

Mara looked down at her hands. "I think I've misaed a lot of love in my life."

"Missed it?" I asked.

She nodded. "I was always waiting for it to look a certain way. Fireworks. Romance. The big, sweeping kind. I think I didn't recognize the love that came quietly."

I felt something ache in my chest then - not for her, but with her. Because I understood.

So many people move through life waiting for love to knock on the door like a thunderstorm, when in reality, it often seeps in like morning light. Soft. Unnoticed. Necessary.

"You probably haven't missed it," I said gently. "You've just been calling it by the wrong name"

The Love That Stays

We sat there in silence for a while, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

In that moment, I remembered of something else - something I hadn't planned to say.

"Mara," I said, "do you know why I never stopped coming here with you? Every Tuesday, same bench, same coffee, even when it's freezing?"

She looked at me. There was something new in her eyes now.

"Because love is showing up. And I love you."

It was the first time I'd said it out loud.

Not in a romantic flurry. Not as a confession. Just as truth.

She didn't answer right away. She didn't need to.

She reached for my hand, held it in hers, it was cold, but steady.

So... What Is the Meaning of Love?

It's not one thing. It's everything you don't think to name.

It's the patience to listen.

The courage to stay.

The grace to forgive.

The strength to leave when needed.

And the gentleness to return when you're ready.

It's not the grand gestures. It's the daily choice to care, in ways big and small.

Love is not always poetic. But it is real.

It's not always loud. But it is present.

It's not always forever. But it is worth every second.

Maybe love isn't a question to be answered.

Maybe it's a life to be lived.