Love Feels Like Her

An ethereal muse with gentle hair and survivor’s skin, my best friend brightens everyone’s day for those lucky enough to be near her. Venus isn’t superficial. Genuine beauty is profound and all-encompassing, enduring rather than temporary.

She is not just beautiful but also sublime—the sublime that isn’t confined to expansive oceans or starry skies, but also resides within a person who contains the universe. The atoms that form her originate from distant galaxies with pink, purple, and lapis lazuli clouds, and from newborn and collapsing stars.

Sometimes I worry I might be overstepping. If given the chance, I’d rewind time, again and again, to prevent bad things from happening to my best friend. I’d relive countless lifetimes if it meant making her happy. My boyfriend believes I’m in love with her, and I struggle to reassure him.

What can I say? There’s a unique connection shared only with someone who has known you since before puberty. We’ve watched each other grow and change through the highs and lows over decades. My best friend was my only comfort growing up.

If I try to remember my childhood, I come up empty. My episodic memory is weak; I can hardly recall what I did yesterday, let alone last week. When it comes to my old house before my parents’ divorce, I only remember tiny snippets—brief moments like pressing my ear to the door to listen for my father’s footsteps so my sister could hide in the closet.

My best friend knew everything about this. She had been there since I was a kid, with little neuroticism or understanding of the world to justify it. Perhaps I did understand it — the underlying hate that coloured my family’s interactions, the messed-up state of the world, and how insignificant our existence on this small planet, hurtling through space, really is.

I didn’t have the words to express it, so it came out as crying, tantrums, and anger issues, making me the problem child. My best friend has always loved me despite witnessing all of this.

The only reassurance I can offer my boyfriend is that I have no wish to defile her. Eros, which is cheap, crude, animalistic, and biologically driven, is considered the lowest form of love. The Greeks regarded Agape as the noblest form, expecting nothing in return. In another universe where she doesn’t even know I exist, I will love her just as much.

I often ponder what love genuinely is and how it manifests in everyday lives. To me, love seems like a language I’ve only started learning as an adult, whereas others have spoken it fluently since childhood. If you asked me now how love feels, I would admit I still don’t fully understand. However, I recognise it when I think of her: a feeling of safety, wrapped in compassion’s warmth, with a confidence that everything will turn out fine.

I believe nothing else matters as long as we are together. No matter what challenges the universe throws our way, we will overcome them by leaning on each other’s strength. Through our companionship, I experience vulnerability and resilience—fragile yet fearless, soft yet strong.

. . .

One night, on the bus ride home from a concert, I sat next to my best friend. I’ve never liked buses, especially their neon-orange seats and loud, distracting patterns. However, my friend’s presence made the trip surprisingly pleasant, almost like being on a yacht or a luxury vehicle.

Watching old suburban houses pass outside, I asked my friend what she would do with her life if societal pressures didn’t matter. She said she wanted to write and perform a play before she dies, and maybe build a theatre. I encouraged her to do it, but she felt responsible for taking the practical route because she was the oldest sibling. She wanted to support her younger siblings in pursuing their own artistic passions.

I nodded in understanding. My best friend was always so self-sacrificing.

We soon reached our stop, disembarked, and walked home. Midway through the walk, we found ourselves in an open field, captivated by the sky above. The sky was clear and shimmering with stars, and we even spotted a comet’s tail.

It was just the two of us in a wide grassy expanse, under that breathtaking view. I felt tiny and insignificant against the vastness, yet close and connected to my best friend. We were like ants nestled together in each other’s warmth.

“Look, a falling star!” she exclaimed, pointing to a streaking star. We weren’t sure it was a genuine meteor, given how distant it was, but we decided to believe it. “Have you ever made a wish upon a star before?”

“No,” I admitted. I never got to make a wish upon a star because it required having something to look forward to. I never thought I would live past twenty. I considered ways to end my life with dignity—maybe wearing my favourite dress to feel like a flying magical girl, even if just for a few seconds.

Being forced to think about what I truly desired made me reflect on what genuinely mattered, which was a challenge for someone who often went to bed early, late, or at dawn. Over the course of my life, time has passed like slipping through a void, leaving me feeling disconnected from spacetime.

I used to lie there with my eyes shut, unsure if I was asleep or awake, dreaming or just existing. Then I’d wake feeling confident, as if I shouldn’t waste my last day. I’d give money to homeless people and end up at the bridge, gripping the cold rail and looking at the space between me and the river.

What might someone enamoured by Thanatos wish for? It brings to mind the anime Puella Magi Madoka Magica, where Homura Akemi says:

“The world isn’t worth saving, its tragedies and sadness will never truly disappear. But even so, it’s the place she once tried to protect… That’s why I’ll keep fighting.”

My best friend’s beauty offers a refuge from the harsh world. True beauty isn’t about perfect proportions but about the emotions it evokes. It inspires awe, silencing the ego. When I see her, my self-importance diminishes.

She makes me feel connected to the universe because she is my Goddess and my goodness. She makes me feel human in a world that starves us of meaning. Among all the things that evoke awe — music, art, the stars — she has been the constant source of awe in my life.

Taking one last glance at the falling star, I bowed my head and prayed. With my eyes closed and fingers intertwined, I wished that someday she would see herself as I do—that she could believe in her power to inspire others and share her gift of beauty, art, and ethereality.

I want to listen to her music while I shower, wash dishes, and fall asleep. I wish for her company through these speakers, with sound waves filling my room. I eagerly await the day I can see her on stage, performing the musical she wrote and directed.

That night, I wished we could grow old together and look after each other’s grandchildren.

If you asked me what love feels like, I would say it feels like her. Her happiness mattered far more than my own. She is the only person for whom I can truly be selfless. As Homura Akemi says, professing her love for Madoka Kaname: