The second kind of love

There are two kinds of love. One is fiery and fierce. The other is quiet and shy. I have been in both.

There are two kinds of love.

The first kind resembles a raging fire. The thirst for the other is unquenchable. Want, need, desire all mingle together in a massive ball. It is inevitable that the ball will roll down the hill, gathering all in its path, growing in tempo till eventually it hits the bottom and explodes. This kind of love is exciting and fun. In it, we lose ourselves. The other is all consuming. There are no walls in this kind of love. Your heart is open – to either be loved and cherished or trampled. You are bare and vulnerable. You cannot and do not know how to shield yourself. It is a force that cannot be controlled. We have read about this kind of love – in romance novels with happy endings. We have seen this kind of love, in movies and television shows. We yearn for this kind of love. It exists, but is fleeting. This kind of love is not sustainable.

I have often wondered what happens after ‘the end’ in books and movies - when the first few months or years of the relationship are over. The plot usually follows this loose trajectory: man and woman meet and sparks fly. Then there is some misunderstanding. They fight and hurt each other. Eventually they kiss and make up. The story always ends on that happy note. As readers and viewers, we sigh in relief. We feel warm inside and hopeful, that someday we will feel love like this.

What the books and movies don’t talk about it is the ‘happily ever after’ - after being the key word here. What would the story look like after five years of being together, married or otherwise? Is the spark still there or do they need to work on it? Has the rolling ball finally hit rock bottom?

I have been in the first kind of love.

I was much younger then. My iron walls had not yet been built. The boy in question was charming with a lopsided grin that turned my insides into jelly. He was the bad boy, straight out of some Young Adult Novel. A boy who had never fallen in love, who moved from woman to woman and preferred to not commit. As a twenty something who was hopeful and longing for the ‘book type of romance’ I assumed that the boy will eventually fall in love (with me) and realize how empty his life had been before he met me. He would change his ways completely, commit deeply and we would live happily. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it? The girl whose smile melted the heart of the bad boy – who lost interest in other women after he met her. The girl who managed to change the bad boy. The girl who he would do anything for.

Except that he didn’t. I dated and chased him for two years, hoping that he would someday stop cheating on me and realize how beautiful our relationship was. I must admit though, that the boy was not solely at fault. We were both young and we both wanted different things. I had been conditioned in the ways of love by books and had unrealistic expectations. I was demanding and doubtful, angry and resentful. He had been conditioned in the ways of patriarchy and had archaic notions of love and relationships. He was confused and arrogant, non-committal and aloof.

We played a cat and mouse game – teasing, trying, chasing and tripping each other way in our bid to win the race. Eventually, the ball grew bigger. Resentment and anger stuck like glue. Love and desire evaporated like steam. It was bound to explode and it did. We parted ways and it was not pleasant. I could not change him. That thought haunted me for years. Should I have given him more space? Should I have trusted him more? Did we ever have a chance?

That love was deep in the way young love is. It eviscerated me, changed me and eventually helped build the iron wall that guards me to this day. If I could go back in time, would I have avoided the heartache? The simple answer is no. I would not wish this kind of love for anyone. But as a life lesson, this was one the important ones for me.

It shook my foundation, my belief system and my ‘idea of love’ itself. The temple crumbled and from its rubble I began to build a new foundation. One that put my needs before the other. One of self-preservation. One which would eventually lead me to the second kind of love.

The second kind of love is the one that you don’t read about. Because you see, it is neither exciting nor glorious. It is not fiery or hot with desire. It is not ‘love at first sight.’ This love is quiet and very shy. It is found in the fold of a friendship that develops slowly through years. It is the gentle nudge of a warm familiar hand that knows when you are feeling low. It is a smile across a room full of people. It is warm and comforting. It takes time. This is the love that lasts.

I am in the second kind of love.

After my break up, I was lost for a long time. I was unsure of myself and lonely. When the parties ended and eventually it was time to sleep, a deep sadness would creep in and lie next to me. I continued to move from one day to another, one party to the next, working, eating, drinking, sleeping. On the surface I was okay. I told myself I would eventually move on. Heartbreak was a part and parcel of life. At least I was living.

During this time, I made a friend. Another boy who I had known for a few years but never really spoken to. He was tall and muscular with soft brown eyes and disheveled hair. He had a deep voice, an infectious laugh and a smile that could cheer even the most morbid spirit. He was unassuming with a world view very different from my own. Our conversations flowed freely – from music to books, movies to politics. I sought comfort in his company. He had a warm hug and that made me feel protected.

I had never felt this safe in the company of another man. I remember thinking to myself, “this is what having a male friend is all about!” I stopped worrying about my appearance, letting my hair curl and frizz, forgetting about waxing and makeup. I had never known this kind of freedom. Ever so slowly, our friendship grew to a comfortable companionship until one day a friend commented,

“So, what’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing. We are just friends,” I replied, convinced that that was all it was.

“No, you’re not,” she stated.

“He is in love with you.”

“What rubbish!” I scoffed.

“We are good friends. Everything is not about love.”

The conversation ended there with a loud full stop.

But the thought lingered on.

Could this be love? I adored this man. He was gentle and kind; perceptive and caring. Together we trashed patriarchy, setting new standards for ourselves. In his presence, I was myself. But was it love? I decided to pay closer attention when I met him next.

I was conscious of my appearance that night. I had taken an effort to dress up, smooth my frizzy hair, worn make up and sprayed some of my precious perfume. He did a double take when he saw me and gave me the most dazzling smile. I kid you not when I say I had butterflies in my tummy and my hands were clammy with sweat. I was nervous! It was in that instant that I knew my friend was right. Our friendship had slowly grown into something deeper. This was not the kind of love I had read about. It was not an obvious attraction. We had not bumped into each other randomly and struck up some fiery romance. We had invested time in getting to know each other, free from the rules of dating. No, I told myself – this is not what love is supposed to feel like. And yet, the thought had been planted in my head and I could not get rid of it.

What would my weekend look like without his company? Who would I call and whine to after a tough day at work? He was my beer buddy, movie buddy, late night drive buddy and everything else in between. So, if this is what love looked like, then it was wonderful and felt just about right.

This is the second kind of love. It does not hit you like a hurricane, all-consuming in its needs and wants.

It is not a Mills & Boon novel. The boy in question is not a bad boy. You do not need to win him over or make him better. This kind of love is soft and gentle. It is the feeling you get on a perfect summer day, when the breeze is cool, the sun shining in the bright blue sky, and you somehow know that its going to be a great day. It is quiet and warm. It is also fiery and wild. It has needs and desires – like any other love. But it waits patiently. It does not demand. This kind of love is sustainable.

So, what happens after the ‘happily ever after’ I ask myself again. The answer is simple. Love happens. The real kind. One which is born out of friendship and respect. Where words are often not necessary. Where fights are just angry debates that eventually conclude. Where you don’t need to dress up, wear make up or wax. Where you can fart loudly and laugh together.

I come home to a man who smiles when he sees me every single day. He has broken every single stereotype I associate with love and at the same time he has met everyone of them too. My iron walls have begun to lower. He never asked this of me. They have come down on their own accord. The real kind of love takes time. We don’t write about it, talk about it or make moves and television shows about it – because it is slow. It happens over time.

This is for all the men who don’t get written about. Who love quietly through actions and not words. This is for him - the tall, muscular man with soft brown eyes, dishevelled hair and a sparkling smile. Because no one will write about the second kind of love. But it’s the only kind that lasts.