So let's try this new language, the same way I've tried new experiences, new surrenders, new heartbeats, new time coordinates.
My love. These words keep sending shivers down my spine every time I say them. Iubirea mea. Meine Liebe. You see? The same. Languages are irrelevant. What matters is on the inside.
So, my love. Let me tell you something about myself.
”I love you” no longer means ”Me too”. Perhaps that is why I said is so open-heartedly, so foolishly fast, some would argue. ”I love you” means that I have gone through enough not to wait for something in return. My ”I love you” was a blank check. It was a statement in itself, self-sufficient, an ”I-love-you” said for the melody of the words, like three piano strings in a concert hall without spectators and without the need for applause.
Iubirea mea. Do you know what else my first ”I love you” was? (which was not even an ”I love you”, but an ”Ich liebe Dich”). It was an act of courage. Because it was a little like jumping from the top without a safety net. But perhaps this is something that I have learned. That safety nets will definitely stop your potential fall, but on the other hand, they may also stop your flight. And, darling... I intend to fly.
I said it was an act of courage because it may have been followed by awkward silence. But this is something that I also learned. That love is a joy and a blessing unconditioned by the ”me too”. It is perhaps the wisdom of not wanting anything in response, and perhaps also the remaining of an immature age when love was a purpose in itself and nothing more. And now, after many other ”I love you's" which, in turn, meant anything from "I have no idea what that is, but love me back" to the sad, but inevitable "I have got used to telling you that" (while my eyes stared blankly above his shoulder), now, with you, I discover the thrill of saying this in an absolute way. No interpretations. No hidden meaning. No analysis. No strategies. Just instinct. An instinct I've been probably following unconsciously all my life, until it has led me to you.
So my first "Ich liebe Dich" was this instinct. And it sounded so natural on my lips as if I had said it my whole life. As if it had been my language, my words, my comfort zone. You are now all of these to me.
Meine liebe. Do you know what else my "Ich liebe Dich" was? It was my personal victory over traumas I had been carrying with me. It was breaking the barrier which separated me from the world and raising awareness over things which matter. I could not have stopped telling you this, despite social conventions, despite timing: it would have meant denying a fundamental part of the woman I am now. Yours. "I love you" meant not just "Ich liebe Dich"; it also meant "I love myself". I love the woman I am becoming in front of your eyes, displaying indecently not body, but deep parts of my soul. The hardest type of indecent exposure. This "I love you" is also a personal issue, you see.
"Ich liebe Dich" is the acute sensation that you complete my gestures, my unspoken thoughts, that you anticipate them and that you know them. And me, the whole me. "Ich liebe Dich" is the happiness of intimacy, the comfort of being able to keep silent together, of not having to say something. That of tuning the rhythms of our breaths. It's the complicity which I never thought I would find and the astonishment of having found it. It's the touch of your skin on mine, as if nothing in the world would ever make more sense. As if we had been doing this for all our lives and we had just woken up from a long-lasting amnesia, in each other's arms.
Meine Liebe. Enough of first "I love you's". These are already memories, right? The kind that we will re-live in years to come. On Christmases, perhaps, because the I love you's and the kisses, and the red dry wines, and the touch of your arms on my body, and the looks in each other's eyes, and the jumping two stairs at a time, and the mon cheri's, these are all presents, presents which we will continue to share. In another life, of course. In this one.