People have this magical version of love they hold in their minds. We see it in movies, in books; yet, I think the root is that…. as humans, we like to believe that we are not alone. That there is someone in the big world who can be the half to our own — someone we can call “ours.” So we attach ourselves to people. We make friends. We honor family. And in a deeper level, we try and reserve the deepest, most complicated emotions we have, and we call it love. But the thing is, romantic love is perpetuated by the poetic notion that it exists on a different plane than platonic love. It does not. We just like to believe it does, because if we don’t, it will cease to be special. When we say we are deeply in love with someone, we just mean that we are deeply attached to them, that we pinned all our hopes on them, that them leaving would be devastating because we’d have to reconstruct our entire worldview in a way that isn’t anchored to them. The concept we built for romantic love is an ephemeral fantasy; we can fall in love with anyone if we so wish, if we try hard enough to project our dreams in their person until we can no longer see a future that does not involve them. But we don’t. Because we are sentimental human beings, and if we believe a fantasy is real, then it has no choice but to become real.