Love Bows.

Love Bows

Love is a very generous lawyer. It defends the guilty, acquits the foolish, and files emotional appeals long after the evidence has expired. It can justify bad decisions, poor timing, empty wallets, and even worse texting habits. The real question is not whether love exists — it’s how much nonsense it can persuade us to endure in its holy name.

Take Lisa.

Lisa was not just a friend; she was the kind of friend who remembered your birthday without Facebook’s assistance. The kind who would say, “You’re so kind,” with the sincerity of a motivational speaker. In my mind, I was harmless — a soft-spoken citizen of good intentions. I had neither the stamina nor the villainy required to sabotage a friendship.

Then one day, Lisa went silent.

Not the ordinary “busy” silence. This was the advanced level — the diplomatic immunity of silence. Messages delivered. Calls unanswered. My mind immediately drafted a list of imaginary crimes. Had I offended her ancestors? Forgotten something crucial? Laughed too loudly at the wrong moment?

Weeks later, she resurfaced with the calm of someone delivering a weather forecast.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said.

It wasn’t betrayal. It wasn’t conflict. It wasn’t even a misunderstanding.

“It’s just that my love for you bowed.”

Bowed.

Not broke. Not shattered. Not combusted. It bowed — like a respectful actor at the end of a long performance. Curtain down. Applause optional.

Apparently, friendship had become a full-time sponsorship program. She had sacrificed time, resources, emotional investment. Our bond, once light and effortless, had become a subscription she could no longer afford. Emotionally overdrafted. Financially fatigued. Spiritually buffering.

Her love didn’t explode — it politely folded its chair and went home.

At first, I admired the poetry of it. Love bowing. So graceful. So dignified.

Until this Valentine’s season.

Irony has a cruel sense of humor.

Now it is my turn to stand in Lisa’s shoes — slightly oversized, slightly uncomfortable. My own love has begun to bow. Not because I do not care. On the contrary, I care excessively. I water the plant daily. I send the messages. I initiate the calls. I compose paragraphs that could qualify for literary awards — only to receive “Okay” as a reply.

If effort were currency, I would be the central bank.

The relationship is not violent. It is not dramatic. It is simply one-sided — like clapping with one hand and waiting for the echo to clap back. I love her. That is the problem. I love her enough to notice the imbalance. Enough to measure the silence between replies. Enough to feel the emotional tax.

Love, it turns out, can drown quietly.

Not in storms — but in small daily disappointments. In expectations that return unopened. In care that travels one direction like a road without a return lane.

And so here I stand, the former defendant now becoming the witness. I understand Lisa. I understand the fatigue. I understand the slow bending of affection under the weight of unequal giving.

Love bows not because it is weak — but because it has carried too much for too long.

I still love her. That part remains stubborn. But my love has bowed — not in surrender, but in exhaustion. A courteous, weary bow.

Curtain falling.

Applause uncertain.

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