When my college professor asked me to describe what love means, I wrote that it can’t be defined, or described merely by words. But by experiences and actions. Love is when you stay up until 3 am not speaking, but holding the one you are in love with. Feeling their pain, helping them conquer their fears, being there. Even if you only get an hour of sleep and your eyes are heavy and burning, you don’t let it matter to you, because all that matters is that that they are okay, that they are safe in your arms. Love is when my boyfriend moved thousands of miles away from the only home he ever knew, just to stay with me while I went through recovery. Love is when your are tired and aching from working all day but you rush home, not to lay down, but to make sure everyone else in your home is fed and happy and healthy. Love is my dad holding my hand in the hospital for seven hours even though he has to work the next day, to be there through the worst panic attack of my life. Love is when my mom gave up her youth and parties and boys and teen years, to be a dedicated mother to me. Love is when I call my best friend in the middle of the night, and she just listens while I cry and cry over my broken heart. Love is when my step-father took in the two year old me, and loved and supported me and always treated me like his own. Love is when I couldn’t eat or speak or sleep or function or fucking breathe, because I thought I had lost the love of my life. Love is staying by someone’s side for three years, fighting for them through heartache and pain and addiction and demons and depression and screaming and horror, and still seeing someone you could never imagine a life without. Love is when you feel what they feel, someone’s pain and agony , stress and passion. Love is self-less, imperfect, horrifying, raw, beautiful and fucking real.
— There is so many definitions of love. //p.s