Loneliness is a funny thing really. It’s not like other emotions. It doesn’t explode inside of you as love does. It doesn’t rise out of you like despair has a habit of doing. It doesn’t flutter in your chest like happiness seems to. It sneaks up on you. You might be in aisle 10 of the grocery store and realise that you don’t have anyone to cook for besides yourself, so you put back the carefully selected vegetables and the fillets of chicken you can’t really afford and sigh, realising that you’ll inevitably end up having cereal for dinner as you have done for the last five nights in a row. Or you’ll be seating in a movie theatre with hordes of teenage girls whispering to one another. You’ll lean over to complain and to ask if you were ever that annoying, only to remember that the seat beside you is bare, you have in fact eaten a medium size tub of popcorn by yourself and you walk out of the cinema, taking enormous satisfaction from the loud bang the door makes as you leave. Maybe you’ll glance out the window of your car and when you look back at the road you see the red glow of the car in front’s brake lights. You will know you’re going to hit before it actually happens and your body braces itself for the impact. You will sit on the side of the road after you’ve exchanged details with the person you crashed into and stare blankly at the phone in your hand realising that you have no one to call. It will make you wonder what you would have done if you were hurt. This will only make you cry more. There’s a chance it will creep up on you at night, when you wipe sleep from your eyes and crawl towards the comfort of a lover than no longer lies next to you. You will search for them with your hand before the truth strikes you: you are in bed alone. You are the only one warming the bed. If you run to the loo in the middle of the night, there will be no one to guard your spot and make sure the sheets don’t lose the heat you so kindly lent them. That’s what makes loneliness so horrid. It lets you forget. It’s not a constant pain in your stomach, but rather a reoccurring ache in your heart. Fortunately there’s a simple remedy. Find a tall boy with blue eyes and a goofy grin. A dorky one, you know the type, one who’s into comics and star wars. One who is appalled when you summarise Lord of the Rings as a very long story about unusually small people and a rather plain looking piece of jewellery. A boy who outstretches his oddly long arms whenever he sees you and allows you to remain wrapped in them for as long as you need. A boy who tells you can have a nice voice, even though you both know he’s lying. Who will kiss you good morning, good afternoon, good evening and good night.

Love me until it hurts.

Love me and love me until you’re sure you can’t love me anymore.

Love me so much you’re sure your heart will explode from passion.

Love me until you forget everything else. Your name, how to spell mushroom, the words to your favourite song.

Love me until you’re sure you will die from loving me so much.

Love me like you have never loved anyone before.

Until it consumes you.

Until you can no longer hear my name without lurching forward, desperate to be nearer to something that has a connection to me.

Love me so much that when you see a stranger in the street with the same curve of mouth or sway in their step as me, you are rendered immobile.

Love me until you can no longer care or remember in which direction the sun sets or the moon rises.

Love me long after I leave you.

Love me long after I leave this Earth.

Love me until nothing else makes sense.

Love me until it destroys you.

Then you will finally know how I feel about you.

Here’s the truth.

No matter how hard I try to be cynical and snide about love I am a romantic to the core.

I want pebbles at my window and love notes slipped into the pockets of my winter coats.

I want kisses in the rain and to fall asleep smiling.