We Were Just Talking About Love

Park Bench Conversations

We didn’t even start with anything deep.
It never does.

It started with menus we didn’t really read,
iced coffees sweating onto the wooden table,
the sun doing that gentle late-morning thing where it feels forgiving.

“You know what’s been on my mind?” I said, stirring my drink even though the ice had already melted.

She looked up from her phone.
That look she gives me, the here we go look, half-amused, half-ready.

“What now?”

I shrugged.
“I’ve been thinking about love. Like… romantic love. And why we want it so badly.”

She laughed softly. Not mocking. Familiar.
“Of course you have. Valentine’s is coming. It does that to you.”

“No, seriously,” I said. “Why do we need it? Like, do we actually need it? Or have we just been trained to want it?”

She leaned back, crossed her arms and watched a couple pass by holding hands.
“Careful,” She said. “That’s a dangerous rabbit hole.”

“I’m already in it,” I replied. “Do you think someone can ever stop being a lover girl? Like genuinely. Not pretend. Not numb themselves. Actually stop wanting to be loved.”

She was quiet for a moment.
Too quiet.

“People say you can,” She finally said. “They say it like it’s growth.”

“And do you believe that?”

She sighed.
“I think people confuse surviving without love with not wanting it.”

I nodded hard.
“Exactly. Because anytime a woman admits she wants romance, she’s suddenly embarrassing. Desperate. A pick me.”

She rolled your eyes.
“God, I hate that word.”

“Me too,” I said. “Because doesn’t everyone want to be picked? Isn’t that… the point?”

She leaned forward now.
“Say that louder. Because somehow wanting money is ambition, wanting peace is maturity, but wanting love? That’s weakness.”

“And it’s always women,” I added. “Always.”

She took a sip of her drink, then said quietly,
“I used to think I could outgrow it.”

I looked at her.
“Outgrow what?”

“Wanting love.”

That stopped me.

“I really thought,” she continued, “that if I healed enough, read enough, poured into myself enough, I’d wake up one day and just… not care.”

I watched her trace the rim of her glass with her finger.

“And?”

“And I did get quieter. More selective. Less loud about it.”

“But you didn’t stop wanting it.”

She shook her head.
“No. I just learned how dangerous it was to want it loudly.”

That landed heavier than she meant it to.

“I learned how to be impressive alone. How to look unbothered. How to say ‘I’m fine’ and mean ‘I’ve adjusted.’”

“Adjusted isn’t healed,” I said softly.

She smiled, sad and knowing.
“Exactly.”

We sat there, watching the trees sway. Somewhere nearby, cutlery clinked. Someone laughed too loudly.

“You know what scares me?”
“What if the world actually needs women to stop wanting softness?”

I frowned.
“What do you mean?”

“If we stop asking for it, no one has to give it. If we call ourselves healed for not needing love, the bare minimum becomes heroic.”

I felt something rise in my chest.
“That’s not healing. That’s resignation.”

She looked at me.
“And yet it’s rewarded.”

Before I could respond, two voices drifted in from the bench beside us.

“You mind if we jump in?” one of them asked.

I looked up. Two men. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Coffee cups in hand. Casual. Not smug.

“We weren’t trying to eavesdrop,” the other added. “But… yeah. We were listening.”

I hesitated. She raised an eyebrow at me like this could get interesting.

“Go on,” She said.

The first guy cleared his throat.
“I think men get punished for loving too.”

I blinked.
“Explain.”

He laughed, not nervously, more tired.
“If a man loves his woman openly, shows up, listens, prioritizes her, he’s a simp.”

The word hung there.

“That word is doing a lot of damage,” I said.

The second guy nodded.
“It’s like caring is considered embarrassing now. Like restraint, loyalty, emotional presence make you less of a man.”

“And you feel that pressure?” She asked.

“All the time,” the first one said. “There’s this unspoken rule that you’re supposed to act like you could leave at any moment.”

“To maintain power,” the second added.

I leaned back.
“So love is weakness now?”

“Apparently,” the first guy said. “Which is wild, because loving well takes discipline.”

“Say that again,” I said.

“It takes discipline to stay,” he repeated. “To choose one person in a world of options. To be gentle without being performative.”

“And no one applauds that,” the second guy said. “They warn you instead. Tell you not to do too much.”

You nodded slowly.
“So lover girls get mocked. Soft men get mocked. Who’s winning here?”

No one answered.

Then the second guy spoke again, quieter.

“There’s another kind of man though.”

“That’s me,” he said. “Or at least… who I pretend to be.”

We all turned toward him.

“I say I don’t want love,” he admitted. “I say I just want respect.”

“And do you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “But not instead of love. Because respect doesn’t hold you at night.”

You tilted your head.
“So why say it?”

“Because love feels risky,” he said. “Respect feels… controlled.”

The first guy nodded like he understood immediately.

“I learned early,” the second continued, “that caring first means losing. That vulnerability is something people use against you.”

“So you go nonchalant,”

“Exactly,” he replied. “Not because I don’t feel. But because feeling openly cost me once.”

I felt my throat tighten.
“So it’s not that you don’t want love.”

He exhaled.
“It’s that I don’t know how to want it without losing myself.”

We were quiet again.

Children ran past us. A dog barked. The world continued being normal while something very real sat between us.

“So let me get this straight,” I said finally. “We’ve created a culture where women are shamed for wanting love, men are shamed for giving it, and the ones who pretend they don’t need it are rewarded?”

“Pretty much,” the first guy said.

“That’s insane,” I snapped. “That’s not growth. That’s collective trauma dressed up as self-control.”

You jumped in.
“And we call it healing because it sounds better than admitting we’re scared.”

The second guy nodded.
“Detachment is safer.”

“But it’s not stronger,” I said.

You leaned forward, voice rising.
“Why are we acting like independence and desire can’t coexist? Why does wanting love suddenly mean you don’t love yourself?”

The first guy raised his hands slightly.
“Because people confuse neediness with need.”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly. Wanting love doesn’t mean you’re empty.”

“And not wanting it loudly doesn’t mean you’re healed,” you added.

The debate got heated then. Words overlapping. Hands moving. Truth spilling.

“Love isn’t optional to the human nervous system,” I said.

“But it shouldn’t be your whole identity,” the first guy countered.

“No one said it should be,” you snapped. “But pretending you don’t want it doesn’t make you evolved.”

“Some people genuinely don’t,” he said.

“And some people genuinely learned to shut it down,” I replied. “Those are not the same thing.”

Silence again.

This time, it felt like agreement.

A group passed by, laughing, talking, disconnected from us but somehow part of the conversation. Lovers. Friends. Singles. People wanting and pretending and hoping in different ways.

“That’s the thing,” you said softly. “Everyone is negotiating the same hunger differently.”

“Some hope loudly,” I added.
“Some rename it,” the second guy said.
“Some mock it,” the first said.
“And some bury it,” you finished.

We all looked at each other and laughed, softly, sadly.

“So what’s the answer?” the first guy asked. “Is needing love good or bad?”

I looked around the park.
At the couples.
At the loners.
At us.

“Maybe that’s the wrong question,” I said.

You nodded.
“Maybe the real question is why we keep trying to outgrow something that keeps finding us.”

The second guy leaned back.
“Like hunger. Or sleep.”

“Or belonging,” the first added.

We packed up slowly. No rush. No grand resolution.

As we stood to leave, I said the thing that had been sitting in me all morning.

“Maybe wanting love isn’t the problem.”