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Love: A complex and multifaceted emotion characterized by strong feelings of affection, intimacy, and attachment toward another person or thing
“Caleb, when did you fall in love with me?”
It’s a question he knew was coming, so Caleb doesn’t immediately look over his shoulder at you. He instead bides his time as he stirs the pot of soup that will eventually grace the table as part of dinner. You’re sitting behind him at the kitchen bar, looking relaxed post-shower and dressed in one of his old high school T-shirts. The outfit makes his conundrum worse. The two of you are entwined so closely that it’s hard to know when one begins and the other ends. So how is he supposed to say ‘when’? The word indicates a moment, maybe a phase. But you’ve never been a phase. You’re a constant. From the days when the two of you were children, and you never seemed to want to let go of his hand. To the summers when you were pre-teens covered in scratches and giggling like hooligans as you played in the quiet neighborhood playground, then to your actual teen years when he was suddenly the taller one. Even to the days when the two of you had grown apart, at least physically, with him in the DAA and you preparing to become a hunter. He’d loved you the entire time.
But he can admit that the love he feels has changed over time. Deepened like how spices are layered in a recipe. But it’s impossible to put into words.
How is he supposed to admit that he falls in love with you every day? Every moment? Every phase?
How is he supposed to admit that he feels every kind of love for you? Familial, romantic, unconditional, even possessive?
And what would you do knowing that those types of love define who he is at his very core?
***
Storge: Familiar love, the natural affection felt within families, like between parents and children.
“You need to be more careful, pipsqueak.” Caleb extends his hand to you, his eleven-year-old frame just slightly taller than your own, and you sniffle a bit as you accept his help to stand up. The iridescent beetle you had been trying to catch hops onward as if silently laughing at how you had tripped over the handmade net that you and Caleb worked so tirelessly to make. It’s broken, now, split in two, yet Caleb is much more concerned about your scratched knees. He kneels down, gently brushing away the dirt, and feels his heart twist when he sees the blood welling. He licks at his fingers and rubs away the worst of it. “Let’s get the first aid kit, okay?”
You nod, obedient as always, and Caleb stands and takes your hand to lead you back home. You’re quiet for a while, then peek at him with your still-red eyes.
“Why aren’t you mad?”
“Huh?” He glances at you as the two of you pass under a maple tree, the leaves rustling in the summer breeze. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“I broke it…” You mumble, “...the net.”
“It’s just a bug net.” He shrugs. “We can patch it up and try again.” Caleb slows his pace, making sure your attention is on him so that he can wink at you. “ And there are a lot better beetles out there. That one didn’t even stop to ask if you were okay.”
This gets him a smile, and he feels a familiar rush of warmth fill his chest. He loves your smile. Loves your happiness more. He can’t say when it started. Maybe it just existed from the first moment he did. That’s why it’s okay when Gran calls you siblings, even if something inside of him feels a bit angry when she does. You love Gran, and he loves you. So, even if it’s too much of a broken thing to call family, he’ll forever be a part of it. Because it’s what makes you happy.
***
Ludus: Playful love, involving flirtation, fun, and lightheartedness.
“Caleb!”
He laughs as you stomp towards him, your fists balled and your hair half-dried and sticking to the indie band T-shirt that you stole from his closet that very morning. The shirt-pilfering habit is one you picked up when you were young, and it’s still going strong even now that you’re twelve. Not that Caleb minds in the least.
“What is it, pipsqueak?” He holds his hands up as if surrendering, allowing you to back him into the hallway wall. “Something of yours go missin’ or something?”
“You washed my dino plushie!” You insist, expression shifting to one of exasperation. “His arms are all wonky now!”
“Dino plushie?” His brow furrows as he tries to remember which one you’re talking about. “The brown buggy-eyed one?”
“No…” Your small spurt of anger snuffs out, and you cross your arms, looking a bit hurt. “The blue one you won for me last New Year.”
“Oh…” He blinks, half of him wanting to appease you, the other half tearing at its chains to tease you. The latter wins, and he can’t help the playful grin that passes over his face. “Sooo how’d it get into the hamper, then? Did it jump in by itself or—”
You smack his shoulder, frustration flaring. “Hey! This is a case of severe plushie assault!”
“Okay, okay.” He covers his grin with a palm, trying his best not to full-on laugh at your puffed cheeks. “Lemme see it and maybe I can stretch out the poor assault victim’s ‘wonky parts.”
You stomp past him towards your room and he follows. It probably shouldn’t feel so natural to be in your spaces: invited into your room to hang out or watch movies. Just like it shouldn’t be so oddly heart-pounding that you want to be in his spaces. In his room. Wearing his shirts.
But he reminds himself to focus. You’re holding out a blue dino plushie that definitely looks wonky, with twisted arms and one button eye hanging loose. He now remembers winning it for you the year prior.
“Poor guy.” He takes it, using his evol to make the plushie's arms wiggle at you. “I dunno, pipsqueak, looks like he needs extensive surgery. Fifty-fifty chance he doesn’t make it.”
“As if.” You huff, “You can fix anything.”
“Can I?” He cocks an eyebrow at you, grin widening. “Didn’t know my stats in your head were so high.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks tinting pink. “Fine, let it go to your head. Just fix him, please?”
“Sure, sure.” He looks around your room. “Where’s your sewing kit? I’ll have Mister Indigo right as rain in no time.”
It takes around half an hour, then Caleb hands you back the plushie, the dino looking good as new. You’re clearly delighted and settle the toy amongst the many others on your bed.
“Thanks!” You skip back to Caleb and roll onto your tiptoes, placing a kiss on his cheek. Caleb feels a familiar rush of warmth in his chest and then…
Weird… It feels like he’s blushing.
***
Philia: Affectionate love, often associated with deep friendship and platonic relationships.
“Pipsqueak?” Caleb knocks at your door, a slight frown on his face. Ever since you turned fourteen, you had started to hide in your room. Gran called it ‘caving’ and said that it was normal for girls your age. But it didn’t feel normal that you hadn’t come down for dinner, even though you knew that he’d made braised chicken. He knocks again. “You okay?”
There’s the sound of you moving around in bed, then a small sniffle. “No…”
“Can I come in?”
You don’t reply, which is a nonverbal ‘yes’ between the two of you. But Caleb is still careful as he cracks the door open and peeks inside. The blinds are closed, and you’re practically a lump within the blankets on your bed. He slips inside your room and closes the door behind him.
“Practicing for the human burrito olympics?” He teases softly, going to sit at the edge of your bed. “I haven’t seen you all day, so you’ve got to be a pro by now.”
You shift, curling tighter into a ball, and he knows it’s not the time for teasing. “Hey,” He murmurs, reaching out to rub your back through the blankets. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
A whimper escapes you, and you slide a hand out of the pile, reaching for Caleb’s and tugging. He lies down next to you, freezing up a bit when you throw the blankets over him, too. In the darkened mess of sheets, you curl against his side, fingers tangling in his shirt.
“Comere.” He murmurs, pulling you closer so that you can lay your head on his shoulder. It’s odd to realize how much taller he is than you, now, and how broad his frame is compared to yours. But he’s happy being the bigger one. It means he can protect you; can glare down at the people who might to mess with you. Yet it seems like he missed something if you’re sniffling into his shoulder.
“Tell me.” He murmurs, stroking the back of your head. “Hm?”
“I feel weird.” You mumble, “Everything hurts. My body’s all wrong and lumpy. Everything says it’s normal, but I just don’t want to exist.”
“Oh…” He hugs you tighter, tucking your head under his chin. There’s no way he can fully understand what you’re going through, even if he did do research, and even if he’s the older one, the taller one. Suddenly, he feels a bolt of fear, realizing that there are so many things he can’t protect you from. Pain. Suffering. Sadness. The warmth he feels in your presence is joined by ice cold, and he holds you even tighter.
“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, kissing your forehead. “I’ll never leave you, okay?”
***
Agape: Unconditional love, a selfless and altruistic love that extends to all.
Caleb is a liar.
He knows it. Hates it. But he didn’t realize that the lie would hurt so much. Your fists are balled, your school uniform rumpled, and your bookbag haphazardly tossed against his school locker. At fifteen, you’re stunningly pretty, yet also terrifying with how angry you look.
“You’re leaving.” You take in an unsteady breath, eyes filling with tears. “Why am I the last one to know? Why—”
You start to cry, and Caleb takes a step towards you, flinching when you take a step back. You’ve never done that before. Never run away. Never avoided him like this. But he understands. He got accepted into the DAA’s early admissions and hid it from you. Because he’s a liar. A coward.
And, most importantly, he's boy who realized that he has feelings for someone he should never love in the way he does.
So he needs space. Literally. Open skies and brutal training to purge the tendrils of affection that might betray the bond between the two of you. He wants you to be safe from everything.
Even if that means hurting you. Even if that means the ‘unsafe’ thing is himself.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, reaching out towards you and then dropping his hands to his sides. “It was going to tell you, things just…”
“Am I not your best friend?” Your voice breaks as you wipe your tears; anger and grief colliding. “Or am I just an annoying little sister that—”
“No.” He breaks his own rule and takes a long step towards you, cupping your face, ignoring how, if anyone saw, your proximity would get more than a few stares. “You’re not my sister. You’re my best friend, and—”
“Then why?!” You punch his chest, then collapse into him, letting him hug you close. “I know that you wanted to become a pilot. I know we won’t always be together. So why?”
It’s one of many questions he can’t answer in words. But even then, that’s a lie, too.
Because there are three little words he can no longer say without them meaning much more than you realize.
***
Eros: Romantic love, characterized by passion, desire, and physical attraction.
You’re ruthless.
Literally.
He leaves for the DAA and, suddenly, your relationship shifts. Less time in each other's physical presence becomes regular texting, calling, meme-sending, and countless late-night video dates. Caleb hates it. Loves it more. It feels like the two of you could break out of the chains of what you were before. But he knows that you don’t mean it that way. You just miss an older brother figure. You also want to make sure he’s okay. That he isn’t pushing himself too hard. That he’s eating and sleeping enough.
He laughs, sometimes, knowing that you’re subconsciously copying his acts of self-service.
He falls into depression, often, being unable to burn away the romantic feelings he has for you.
The dreams are the worst; his sleeping mind betraying him. Memories of childhood games of house turned into gentle, yet haunting reminders that trading origami wedding rings will never become two adults saying ‘I do.’ Worse yet are the dreams that remind him that he desires every inch of you. And there can’t be anyone else. His body is practically covered in the ghost of your touches. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, the childish song goes. He’s had your blood in his mouth from when he licked your wounds. Your teeth left a small scar on his hand from when you were hallucinating from fever. His body wash is the smell you like; his most precious belonging is the necklace you gave him.
It's as if you are an infection in his very blood, his bones, his dreams.
And he knows you so well that his mind conjures you perfectly: your hair a bit messy, your face so expressive that he can never have enough pictures saved in his hidden folder. And you always instigate. Ask him to kiss you. Straddle his waist and roll your hips as he tries desperately to wake up. Yet he can’t. He wants to make you happy, even the dream version of you. And you sigh so wantonly when he grabs your hips and grinds against you; when he strips you of his T-shirt and rolls the two of you over in bed. He has no idea of what sex feels like, and yet he does at the same time. You’re soft, yet sharp, scratching his back, kissing him with tongue and teeth like you've been waiting for this as long as he has. You kiss his tears of shame away and tell him that it’s okay, that he’s yours and he has always been, dreams or not.
You moan his name until he’s waking up and ready to shoot himself for betraying you in such a way.
He loves it. He hates it.
Oh… his phone is vibrating. It’s you. He knows your voice is the drug to his addict. He knows he shouldn’t pick up.
He does anyway.
***
Mania: Obsessive love, characterized by possessiveness, jealousy, and emotional extremes.
He’s always been a bit broken.
The Toring chip makes him realize this without a doubt.
Someone’s entire being shouldn’t be a reflection. A mirror image. A dependent variable to a constant.
Yet that is him to you. A shadow puppet to the doll with angel’s wings.
It hurts to die.
It hurts more to see you realize that he wasn’t perfect.
It feels good that you cared enough to investigate the people behind his ‘death.’
It feels agonizing that you seem fine. Great, actually, blooming in your life and career.
Maybe he should have stayed dead.
Maybe he should die again. For real, this time, to make it easier for you.
But he can’t. He needs to protect you. To remain the mirror. The puppet.
Was his life ever his to begin with?
Or was it always yours?
***
Pragma: Enduring love, a practical and long-lasting love based on commitment and shared goals.
“Caleb?”
He blinks, staring down at the furiously bubbling pot of soup. Right, he’d been cooking.
You step around him, taking the ladle and stirring. “Wow, you almost burned it, Captain Oblivious. Did my question really fluster you that much?”
He looks down at you, sees you purse your lips as you try to nudge him out of the way, then hastily turns the heat down. “Sorry. Got in my head a bit.”
You glance up at him, brows furrowed a bit, then step back and open your arms. “Hugs. Now.”
He chuckles, confusion and amusement mixing. “Okay, okay. What’s the occasion?”
You pull him into your arms; your grip tight and grounding. “You were floating away again.”
“Oh…” He blinks as he nuzzles into your hair. “Again? As in I’ve done it before?”
“Yeah.” You pull back just enough to look up at him. “You used to do it all the time when we were kids. Why do you think I held your hand so much? You’d phase out, and I was so worried that you’d just… fly away.”
He blinks at you, then tries to play off the slightly breathless feeling with a playful grin. “So you didn’t just like holdin’ my hand? Silly me for misunderstanding.”
“Stop playing dumb.” You reach up to pinch his cheek. “I liked holding your hand. I like holding your hand. Hard not to when my lifelong crush has always been stupidly cute.”
This fully knocks the air out of him, and he just stares at you.
Lifelong?
Crush?
You giggle a bit, cupping his cheeks and rolling onto your toes to place a whisper of a kiss on his top lip. “You dummy. Wasn’t I super duper obvious?”
Obvious?
No?
Yes?
Maybe???
He suddenly pulls you into a tight hug, lifting you from the ground. “What else am I missing?” He chuckles, tone still breathless. “Apparently I really am a big dummy.”
“Hm…” You go quiet for a while before replying in a soft tone. “I’d probably be better off giving you your other birthday gift.”
You wiggle in his arms, a sign that you want to be put down, and he gently places you on your feet. Caleb feels a bit awkward as he watches you disappear down the hallway then return with a journal. Holding it out to him, you bite your lower lip.
“This is my Caleb journal.”
He cocks an eyebrow, managing a playful smile. “Sooo you didn’t just have an ‘account’ book to slander me in, there’s an official novel.”
You huff and gently smack his chest with the journal. “Fine, now you’re not allowed—”
“Whoa, whoa.” He quickly slides it out of your fingers. “When am I going to say no to reading things that I can tease you about later?”
To his surprise, you don’t smile, and instead give him a sad look. “The notes you write before you go on missions... I've been doing something similar, just with life events. That’s what’s in the journal.
“Oh…” He glances down at the diary. “Are you… sure?”
You nod. “Yeah. This was your other birthday gift, but we got a bit… distracted.”
His ears flush red before he can stop his thoughts from returning to that night. You’re similarly affected, turning away and clearing your throat.
“I’ll take over cooking.” You say, flapping your hand at the living room couch.
He stands in place for a few moments, holding the diary as if it’s made of glass. It feels too intimate to look at your private thoughts. Yet you handed it to him, even made it part of his birthday gift, so he eventually sits down and reads.
And reads.
And reads.
Tears mark some pages; a little girl’s innocent confusion. Doodles others; a teen’s first blush. Pictures are hidden between pages; a college girl’s secret. The dates are far between, going from a child’s scrawl spanning several years each to your current handwriting with dates every few months. Then he finds the pages that are nearly illegible. Ink bleeds from one page to another; panic and pain. Grief put onto paper so that a young woman could pretend to be a human on the outside while her soul shattered. Then grief turned to rage. Confusion. Bitterness. Hope. Joy.
Yet, amongst it all, there was always love.
He hears you setting the table when he comes to the last few pages. There’s a small note at the end. Oddly, it seems to be the first thing written in the journal, and it takes him a bit to decipher the awkward handwriting you had at seven years old.
Dear Caleb,
You’re my most important person. I love you more than anyone else. I learned a word from the dictionary. It’s Philautia. I’ll wish it for you for every birthday, okay? And when this diary is finished, I’ll tell you my most important secret, okay?
He closes the book and hears you approach from behind. You wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle just below his ear.
“I was pretty sappy as a kid, wasn’t I?”
He turns, looks up at you, and smiles as he's bearing his entire soul.
“Not as much as the boy that loved you before he knew what love even was.”
Philautia: Self-love, encompassing self-esteem, self-acceptance, and self-compassion.