**A REASON TO LOVE**
“You’re awfully sharp today,” remarked Henry, watching Alice pack her suitcase. “What’s going on?”
Alice trailed her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf—the ones he’d dismissively called “sentimental rubbish.”
“Remember when you promised to teach me about wine?”
“What of it?”
“Precisely nothing,” she said curtly, tossing the flat key onto the table. “As usual.”
“I didn’t mean any harm!” he protested. “I’ve just got my own things going on.”
“Well, Henry, I’ve got my own life. And I’m tired of waiting for you to take part in it.”
Alice had always dreamed of love straight out of a novel. The kind where you meet someone and—bam!—it’s *Him*. Fireworks, stolen glances, whispered sweet nothings, and that elusive “spark.” And if there were problems, they’d be external ones—never between *them*.
“Darling, love at first sight only happens in fairy tales,” her mother would say gently. “In real life, love needs a reason. Several, actually.”
Alice would scoff. “A *reason*? Mum, that’s just calculation, not feelings!”
“You only love kittens and babies unconditionally. And even then, you’d train the kitten not to pee in your slippers. A man? You’ll want someone who cares for you, supports you, stands by you. Handsome eyes are lovely, but they’re just the start. What comes after?”
Her mother was right. But Alice hadn’t known that yet.
She searched for her perfect man, ignoring the ones right in front of her—until the day a new bartender started at her favourite café. Tall, dark-eyed, with a voice like melted chocolate. The first evening he poured her a glass of wine and murmured something about hints of blackberry and spice, her heart skipped a beat.
She fell. Hard. Forever. Or so she thought.
“He’s different,” she insisted to her friend. “Passionate, creative, not like the others.”
“He’s a bartender, Alice. Just a regular bloke. And a bit too full of himself, if you ask me.”
But Alice wasn’t listening. Not when he was rude to her parents. Not when he spent his first paycheque after months of unemployment on a guitar instead of rent. Not even when she worked two jobs to keep them afloat while he spent his days gaming.
She endured. She believed. Because with him, she felt that dizzying rush—passion, attraction, the promise of a fairy tale.
But fairy tales don’t last. Henry wasn’t the sort to invest in a relationship. He wanted to be loved for simply existing. Fed, supported, inspired—while he lived for himself. Glamorously, freely. No strings attached.
Alice packed in silence. Rain tapped against the window. Her heart felt hollow.
She remembered the receipt tucked in her purse for a year—from their first date. He’d promised it was just the beginning. Turned out, it was the end.
“I was wrong,” she said aloud, to no one. “I mistook infatuation for love. Now I know—you only love someone *just because* when they’ve earned it.”
When Alice returned to her parents’ house, her mother simply nodded.
“About time. Welcome back, grown-up daughter. Now you know love isn’t butterflies. It’s being seen. Heard. Valued. And giving the same in return.”
Alice sat at the kitchen table, poured herself tea—hot, strong, undiluted by excuses. For the first time in ages, she felt calm.
Sometimes, to love properly, you first have to learn who *not* to love.
