“Have you ever been in love?”, he asks, tentavely stroking his thumb over the back of my hand, sending shivers diwn my spine. 

“The closest I ever came was when I was much younger, much too young to know what love, a crush or flirting even was. You see there was this boy, who I considered a friend, we would hang out everyday. And I guess, looking back on it, I guess we flirted a lot. He would wink at me from across the table and whisper secret jokes into my ear. And then it stopped. We stopped being friends, we stopped talking. It just stopped. I don’t know why, whether it was his fault or mine or whether we just grew apart, but it happened. And then I left and all I know now is that everytime I go back home, I refuse to see him, talk to him, even greet him. Although I see him around and he’s even been at my house, I just refuse to see him.”

“And you think that’s love?”, he asked slowly, carefully. 

“No”, I look him directly into his eyes, “but it’s the closest I have ever come to that kind of love.”

He says nothing for a while, still stroking my hand, yet not breaking eye contact. 

I start laughing. “Pathetic, right?”

“No, it’s honest. Most people would have just said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘once’ yet you tell me the story and that’s not pathetic. That’s incredibly brave.”