I called you love much before I started calling you dost, a friend. Calling you love required me to feel love for you and feel loved with you, by you, which happened soon after the first couple of meetings, the first few mails. Butterflies didn't feel shy showing up in my stomach, our stomachs, one bright autumn morning.
Calling you dost, however, needed more proof than just admission of love. It needed show, not tell. The test of whether I am there when you need me and if you're there when I do. If we know how to listen and how to forgive. That needed time, for seasons to change, for autumn to become winter and butterflies to go into hibernation and instead of feeling lonely and desolate, finding this surprising warmth lurking in the air that made winter bearable. The warmth that comes with the knowledge that love is there to stay. That love is now familiar—an extra spoon on my plate, a new toothbrush in the brush stand, a fireplace inside the home, a hearth within the heart. It is now a friend.
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