amo, amas, amat.

You are seven.

Your mother tells you she loves you, and you accept it, because these words have dripped from her mouth for countless years to the point where you wonder what it really means. You think you love her too, because there is a funny feeling in your chest when she makes your favourite meal or helps you with homework. Then you see love in movies. It is usually between man and woman, pink lips on another’s mouth, hot hands seeking across adult bodies. You say ”gross,” when the phrase is said again.

You are thirteen.

Teenage years have taken unusual tolls on both your body and mind. Your friends ask if you like so-and-so; you say no, embarrassed. So-and-so likes you. The two of you agree to go to the cinema and press lips together like they do onscreen. At an attempt of flattery, you tell your date you love them, but the words are hollow. Empty. They fall from your wet lips and shatter on the theatre floor amongst the discarded popcorn and candy wrappers.

You are sixteen.

A student from school tells you that they love you, and you believe it this time because they shower you in gifts and attention and slather your face and body in gentle kisses and soft words. You tell your parents that you are in love. They look at each other and laugh.

You are twenty-five.

There is a colleague that meets your eye whenever you are in the same room. When your boss cries for a meeting, you find their gaze and they roll their eyes in response. Laughter ensues, numbers are traded, and over the weeks, you become closer. A friendship is formed. You love them, and decide that it doesn’t always have to be romantic.

You are thirty-something, nearing forty.

It is a Sunday morning and light has begun to gild between the crevices of your bedroom curtains. The bed is warm, but the space beside you that should be occupied is empty. You wrap yourself up in a spare robe. Upon entering the kitchen, all tension leaves your body as a welcome sight greets your eyes; your lover of many years, making a late breakfast among the sound of cooking utensils and smell of various ingredients.

You say it too often, but it always means the same. “I love you.”

“I love this song.”

“I love that dish.”

One word is not enough to describe the feelings you contain for a thousand different forms of it, and yet, you love.