Maya used to believe that love was in the words.
Not just any words, but those words.
“I love you.”
Arjun said them often. Casually.
Like a habit.
Like breathing.
Like something that didn’t need thought or effort, only repetition.
At first, it felt like warmth.
Like she had finally found a place to rest.
A place where she didn’t have to question if she mattered.
But slowly, something inside her began to ache.
It started small.
“Can you not disappear when I need you?”
she had asked one evening, her voice softer than her pain.
“I’m just busy, Maya. You know I love you,” he replied.
And she believed him.
Because love, she thought, meant understanding.
So she adjusted. She waited.
She made excuses for him, even when he never made time for her.
Days turned into months, and the ache turned into silence.
He still said it.
“I love you.”
But he said it after ignoring her messages for hours.
After canceling plans last minute.
After making her feel like asking for the bare minimum was asking for too much.
One night, after yet another broken promise,
Maya sat staring at her phone. The message read:
“Sorry, something came up. I love you.”
She didn’t cry.
Not this time.
Instead, she read it again. And again.
And something finally clicked—not loudly,
not dramatically—but quietly, like truth often does.
If he loved her, why did she feel so alone?
If he loved her, why did her heart feel like it was constantly negotiating for basic kindness?
If he loved her… why was she always the one adjusting?
The next day, she met him.
“Why are you so distant?” he asked, noticing the shift in her eyes.
Maya looked at him, really looked this time,
not at the version she had created in her mind,
but at the man standing in front of her.
“You say you love me,” she said calmly.
“I do,” he replied instantly.
She nodded. “But you never fix what hurts me.”
He frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
“It means,” she continued, her voice steady but heavy with truth,
“you love the idea of me being here.
You love the comfort of knowing I won’t leave.
You love that I understand, adjust, forgive… over and over again.”
“That’s not fair,” he said defensively.
Maya gave a small, tired smile.
“No. What’s not fair is calling it love when it’s just convenience.”
He was silent.
And for once, she didn’t rush to fill that silence.
“Love isn’t just words, Arjun,” she said softly.
“It's an effort. It’s change.
It’s choosing someone even when it’s inconvenient.
What we have…” she paused, searching for the right word,
“…is comfortable. For you.”
“And for you?” he asked.
She took a deep breath.
“It used to be love. Now it just hurts.”
That was the moment everything shifted, not in him, but in her.
For the first time, she chose herself over the illusion.
She walked away, not because she stopped loving him,
but because she finally understood something deeper:
Love that doesn’t grow, doesn’t listen, doesn’t try… isn’t love.
It’s just the comfort of not being alone.
And Maya had finally learned.
She deserved more than being someone’s comfort.
She deserved to be someone’s effort.
