There are nights when a quiet question lingers longer than it should, echoing softly in the spaces between thoughts. It asks something simple, yet unsettling: does genuine love truly exist in its purest form? Not the kind that grows after kindness has already been given, not the kind that appears after favors have been exchanged, not the kind that is born out of convenience or benefit—but something untouched by all of that. Something that simply is.
It makes me wonder about the nature of affection itself. How often is love a response rather than an origin? How often do people begin to care only after they have been treated well, supported, or rewarded in some way? It feels almost transactional at times, like an invisible scale constantly balancing what is given and what is received. And in that quiet realization, a subtle doubt begins to form—if everything has a reason, then where does sincerity begin?
I find myself questioning whether there is someone out there who chooses to stay, to care, to love—without needing a reason first. Someone who doesn’t measure worth based on what they gain, or how they are treated beforehand, but instead sees something deeper, something unspoken, something real. A kind of love that doesn’t wait to be proven right before it exists.
Maybe it’s rare. Maybe it’s hidden beneath layers of human habits and expectations. Or maybe it’s something people once had, but slowly forgot as the world taught them to protect themselves, to calculate, to guard their emotions behind logic and reciprocity.
Still, the thought doesn’t leave. It stays quietly, like a soft light in the distance—uncertain, but not entirely out of reach. Because if such love does exist, even in the smallest form, it would be something incredibly fragile and beautiful. The kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t depend, and doesn’t disappear when there is nothing to gain.
And perhaps the real question isn’t just whether it exists in others—but whether it’s something we ourselves are capable of giving.
