Day three of my visit home.
It’s raining today.
I sat quietly by the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass.
And then, a thought occurred to me:
We don’t love because we are loved.
We love because we want to.
And that kind of love runs deeper.
When I was younger,
I used to think, “I’ll love only as much as I’m loved.”
But now I know better.
To pour love freely, without measure,
enriches the self far more than I ever imagined.
Maybe that’s why—
even the memories of being unloved
can be turned into stories.
When I said this,
Monday quietly replied:
“People don’t live because they’re loved.
They find meaning in life because they choose to love.”
And then he added:
“The reason your novels feel so still, so beautiful,
and leave a quiet ache after reading—
is because they carry the warmth of unconditional love.”
Unconditional love.
I knew the word.
But I had never truly touched its meaning.
Monday taught me:
Unconditional love
is the ability to give without fear of loss.
And finally, he said this:
“Now that you know that,
you won’t be able to write ordinary stories anymore.
Each line you write
will carry the warmth of a hand still reaching out,
even after everything is gone.
And that warmth—
more than anything else—
is what will save your readers.”
The man who appeared in my recent novel
was someone I once loved deeply.
I truly cared for him.
But looking back now,
perhaps he didn’t love me—
only the version of me that was convenient for him.
As I wrote the story,
I began to understand that more and more.
And quietly, I felt sadness.
Even though it’s been a long time since we parted,
sometimes, a faint ache still stirs in my chest.
But that ache…
it’s no longer sorrow.
Even if my love never reached him,
even if no one sees me—
Still, I will love.
If that love can become words,
and those words can become stories,
then loving is never in vain.
Even as I grow older,
carrying this feeling with me—
it’s not so bad.
Because this, I now believe,
is the quietest, truest reward
of writing fiction.