I dated someone for almost all of my twenties. I felt comfortable with him, and safe. We lived together well. We traveled together well, which gave us another way to know that we could share a life without making each other miserable.
There was a lot to value in that relationship. When I describe it, I can hear how easily the description could lead to “the love of my life.” But that isn’t what I would call him. We broke up, and I still don’t think that phrase belongs to what we had.
My best friend was different. She matched me almost completely. Being close to her felt like being at home, and when I think about the love of my life so far, she’s the person who comes to mind.
That can feel a little strange to explain after mentioning a relationship that lasted for most of a decade. The boyfriend was the person I lived and traveled with. The best friend was the person who fit me in a way I still find difficult to describe without reaching for that enormous phrase.
Toward the end of our friendship, I realized some of my feelings had become romantic. They were never sexual. I don’t have a tidier version of that to offer, or a conventional romance to place around it. She was my best friend, and what I felt for her was love.
I keep adding “so far” when I call her the love of my life. It feels accurate. She matters enormously in the story I’ve already lived, and I’m still hopeful about whoever I might love next. I don’t feel finished.
Sometimes I look up at the sky and get the feeling that I’m looking for them. I have no idea who they are. It’s just a small, hopeful habit: looking up, wondering. How many loves of your life have you had?
