I think “love” is simple.

It’s when you hold hands, laugh unintentionally, when you notice the single stray strand of hair and feel an immediate urge to push it behind her ear tenderly. When you are stuck in traffic, the car behind you honks impatiently and you remember her, randomly, just like that. It’s the odd associations of a particular smell, a pastel green, a quaint old cafe that brings back memories.

But sometimes, “love” hurts. It disappoints and lies. It shatters us, breaks us apart, tests our will to survive. It makes us trip, falter and crash to the depths of despair. It’s complex. It’s the push and shove, the abuse, the damage, the traumas, the threats and the weaknesses. It’s dark and empty, chaos and heartwrenching.

If someone were to ask me, what exactly is “love”? I wouldn’t know what to say. All I know is that it keeps us alive, and that’s all we need really.