Was That Love?

Love is love… but was that love?

At 13, passing notes, stealing glances, heart racing over a hallway smile - was that love or was that me chasing a feeling I didn’t have the words for yet?

At 14, calling it forever after two weeks, crying over silence, mistaking attention for intention - was that love, or was that me wanting to be chosen?

At 15, 16, 17… holding on tight the more it hurt, excusing what should been a warning, calling it “ride or die” when it was really losing myself piece by piece.

I thought I was in love. I said it with my whole chest. Felt it in my whole body. But love… real love… doesn’t look like confusion. It doesn’t feel like betrayal on repeat. It doesn’t require you to shrink just to stay.

I was young. I didn’t know the difference between being seen and being valued.

I lusted.

I attached.

I hoped.

And every red flag? I painted it pink and called it passion.

We were kids trying to play grown, building forever on a foundation we didn’t even understand.

And then life said - “Pay attention.”

Because the same boy who showed me who he was at 13 never changed at 18. I just kept calling it love instead of calling it what it was.

And maybe that’s the truth we don’t say out loud enough: Just because it felt deep doesn’t mean it was love. Just because you stayed doesn’t mean it was right. Just because they chose you doesn’t mean they valued you.

And love? Love doesn’t start with them.

It starts with YOU!

Because if I had loved me more - I would’ve walked away sooner. If I had known me more - I wouldn’t have settled for less.

But growth sounds like this: “I see it now.”

And healing looks like this: “I choose me now.”

So, no - that wasn’t love.

But it taught me what love will never be again.