“Do you love me?” she asked, unsure of what I might say. She couldn’t make eye contact and had uncertainty in her voice.
I told her I did; because I really, really did. I told her the truth and no lie.
“Prove it,” she challenged, as if she didn’t believe me and she said it straight out, clear eye contact and as loud and clear she could get.
But how couldn’t she see it? The way my eyes lit up the second they met her? Or the way I couldn’t keep a straight face whenever she was around?
How could she not hear the smile in my voice when we talked on the phone? Or feel my hands shaking when she held them?
It was the little things that made me realize I was in love, and it’s the little things that can’t be proven.
How do you prove something which effects someone so much and how can’t you see it?
I guess she found her reply in my silence and failed attempt to explain something so obvious, that she couldn’t notice.
So she went with someone else. She picked someone who showered her with gifts and physical proof of his love. And I guess that’s what love meant to her.
— from a book I’ll never write.