Wreckage of Unmanned Ship

Just like you, my friends asked me, "Was it ever love?"

It got me pondering about the implication if it was love, or if it was not love.

If it was the latter one, wouldn't it be dismissing our feelings, interactions, and eye-contacts that we have given each other. Wouldn't it be dismissing the tension, the push and pull that the Universe had made us do these past two years. Wouldn't it be dismissing the chemistry that we seemed to have. Wouldn't it be dismissing every experience that we had due to it, everything that we did not share with each other, everything that was kept in dark silence, everything that was soundlessly whispered to the void, everything that we hoped was simultaneously shared to and kept from each other. Wouldn't it be dismissing to us as an unnamed joined entity and as our own person. Wouldn't it be dismissing each other.

But, if it was love. Who could be sure. Who could explain it to me truly that it was love. Who could explain it to me that what we had was romantic love. Who could tell me that love actually was consist of silent treatments, misunderstandings, and dishonesty. Who could tell me that the secrets we refused to share to each other—the very same secret that we whispered to the void—were what made it love. Who could tell me that the longings that couldn't leave my mouth and my heart were because of love. Who could tell me that all the late-night self-destructive wonderings that I experienced was a deliberate form of love. Who could tell me that all these lonely moments where we were left alone with our self-deprecating thoughts was a direct result of love. Who could tell me that trying to dismember our homesickness from ourselves by attaching ourselves to another person was a form of love. Who could assure me that wreckage of unmanned and purposeless ship that we found ourselves in was the result of love.

Would it still be called love if we have to prove its existence? Would it still be called love if it could only rob ourselves off of happiness?