Symptoms of Love

The Symptoms of Love

They never told us that love would feel more like a slow fever than a lightning bolt.

There’s no sudden switch. No dramatic orchestral moment. No skies opening. It arrives quietly, crawling beneath your skin like warmth from a candle you didn’t realize was lit. It’s subtle at first—almost dismissible—but over time, the symptoms become harder to ignore.

I didn’t know I was falling in love. Not really. Not when I met her, not when we first spoke, and not even during our early conversations that stretched into midnight. But the body knows before the mind catches up.


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Symptom 1: Restlessness

It started with a strange kind of restlessness.

I would check my phone more often, pretending it was for work, or habit, or anything but hope. Her name began to carry more weight than any notification. I wasn’t waiting for a message—just the idea of one.

Days felt a little longer, not because they were boring, but because they weren’t spent near her. Time reshaped itself around her presence, and the minutes away from her stretched out thin and aching.

That’s when I realized: this was not ordinary curiosity. It was an emotional itch I couldn’t quite scratch. A craving I didn’t know I had until I met her.


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Symptom 2: Irrational Joy

There was a smile I couldn’t control.

It would sneak across my face in the middle of work, at a red light, during lunch, in the middle of conversations. A memory of her laugh. The way she said my name. The time she made fun of my terrible coffee-making skills.

It didn’t make sense. I was tired. I was stressed. But I was also... smiling?

Love makes you forget that the world is breaking in places. It convinces you, if only for a moment, that everything is a little softer, a little more beautiful. Even bad weather becomes poetic when you miss someone in the rain.


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Symptom 3: Absurd Sensitivity

I began noticing tiny things—details I would have previously ignored.

The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The exact color of her eyes under café lighting. The rhythm of her speech when she got excited.

And it wasn’t just her. Music started sounding different. Songs I had heard a thousand times now tugged at something deeper. I could cry at a commercial. I could feel my throat tighten during sunsets.

I was becoming porous. Love had made my heart a sponge.


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Symptom 4: Fear Dressed as Wonder

Here’s the strange part about love: it’s terrifying.

When I realized how much I cared, I also realized how easily it could break me. That’s when the fear arrived—not of her, but of myself. Of what this meant. Of how vulnerable I’d become.

But the wonder overpowered the fear.

Because for every second I hesitated, there were ten more where I simply wanted to tell her: “You’re the most unexpected part of my story. And I think I’m okay with that.”


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Symptom 5: Silence That Speaks

Conversations didn’t have to be constant. In fact, it was in the silences that I felt it the most.

Sitting next to her without speaking, hearing nothing but the hum of the world, and still feeling like the room was full—those were the moments I held closest.

Love doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it’s just the comfort of not having to fill the space with noise.


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Symptom 6: The Longing That Lingers

The most persistent symptom of all is longing.

Even when you’re with them, part of you wants more. Not in a greedy way—but in that endless, ever-deepening way where no amount of time feels enough.

It’s not just physical closeness. It’s the longing to be understood completely. To memorize them like a favorite song. To wrap your life around theirs—not to lose yourself, but to grow beside them.

Love is not a possession. It’s a presence. And when it’s real, even their absence feels sacred.


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So What Is Love, Then?

If love had a diagnosis, it wouldn’t be loud or dramatic. It would be found in the everyday symptoms we often overlook:

A skipped heartbeat.
A smile you didn’t mean.
A breath held when they enter the room.
A silence that says more than words ever could.

Love is not just fireworks. It’s the afterglow.
It’s the echo in your chest after they say goodnight.
It’s the ache of missing someone who’s right there—because you’re already imagining how much you’ll miss them later.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the deepest symptom of all.