I walk past this sign at the start of my day and its end. I look at the underlined “inconvenience” and wonder why that is. 

Is it because much of the media frames love as sunshine and rainbows? Or, more accurately, like grand gestures: Ryan Gosling building a house for you (The Notebook, 2004), or the literal President of the United States declaring martial law for you (Scandal, 2012). 

Is it more youthful in nature? Peter Kavinsky’s hand in your pocket (To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, 2018) or Garrett Graham beating a guy on the ice rink (Off Campus, 2026). 

Coming to university, I dreamed of this. This existentially-destroying, stupidly reckless sort of love that I believed in religiously. I’d have moments of making eye contact in the library and blushing, accidentally bumping into someone at St. Ali’s and convincing myself it meant something, or maybe taking the longer way back home because I had someone who was a reason for it. I wanted the kind of love that would light up like fireworks, that took a usual Wednesday night in and made it something worth writing about. 

Since time immemorial, TV shows and movies have interchanged being loved for being pursued. That it needs to be loud to be real. And for a long time, I thought that was what it should be. Or what was the point? 

But then there’s that word from that sign. Inconvenience. It’s such a contrast to the positive evaluation we usually give to love and romance. It is, in its essence, interruption. Interruption of an otherwise manageable and happy day. It’s having to leave twenty minutes in advance just to make sure the two of you arrive at the same time, or staying on the phone just a little longer until they get home. It’s remembering someone doesn’t like tomatoes in their food, so you take them out before they see them. 

Does listing what should arguably be the simplest expressions of affection as inconveniences make me a terrible person? Or have we lowered the bar so significantly that basic consideration and going beyond have become acts of extraordinary devotion? 

Let’s see. 

In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (2003), Andie Anderson and Benjamin Barry spend ten days manipulating each other into breaking up and falling in love at the same time, only for the charade to end with the two of them spending the rest of their lives together. In He’s Just Not That Into You (2009), we’re hit with the reality check that sometimes, that boy is just not that into you. We learn to not make excuses when you don’t see effort, or turn a missed phone call or text into some complicated psychological puzzle. Most importantly, to not convince ourselves that these modern “hints” are supposed to be an elaborate declaration of love in disguise. 

At some point since, our dating culture has evolved into pretending not to care, defined by an entire dictionary dedicated to the kinds of relationships we don’t actually have to commit to. Texting first is embarrassing. Double-texting? You might as well jump off the nearest cliff. Having no feelings is apparently too little effort, but having too many is something to play down. We’ve become so committed to the idea of appearing unbothered that I’m not entirely sure when we decided that being wanted was something to hide. 

Maybe we’re going too far into the future. The point becomes clearer if we travel back even further…1813, perhaps. In Pride and Prejudice (1813), when Mr Darcy proposes to Elizabeth for the second time, a collective swoon is heard all over the world. He has confronted himself, unlearned his pride, and reconsidered every assumption that he was brought up with, just for her. He has, of his own will and effort (which is a rare thing to see nowadays), become someone capable of loving Elizabeth as an equal. In Sense and Sensibility (1811), Austen leaves us to wonder whether the greatest expression of love is feeling everything and being totally dependent. Maybe love isn’t just about finding someone to inconvenience themselves for you. It’s also about being willing to change yourself. 

Back to the present. Sally Rooney’s Normal People (2018) gives us Marianne and Connell, who love each other desperately, but consistently fail to make that love feel secure. Misunderstandings, communication failure, and isolation surround the two characters, and the show (and book) are masterpieces in questioning how much of our insistence on being low-maintenance comes from a fear of the other person eventually deciding we’re too much trouble and leaving. 

My point is, the media we’re currently consuming has essentially taught us to measure our worth by how little trouble we cause other people, people who claim to love us, and we’ve started treating our own needs and wants as things to apologise for when spoken of. We never want to be the person who asks for too much, calls too often, or needs a little reassurance. 

We want so desperately to be loved, but preferably without having to ask for it. 

And it’s so inherently stupid, because people aren’t mindreaders. And love, for the most part, is not intuitive. Sometimes you have to communicate what you need. Sometimes you have to compromise. And sometimes this takes a lot of courage–you have to accept that the people you love will have lives and priorities that exist independently of you. But that doesn't make it wrong to ask them to make space for you.

Which brings me back to my original question. Are these inconveniences, or are they consequences of what happens when you make room for another person to exist in your life? Maybe the difference is that the latter is not necessarily a point of resentment; it’s adjustment. Your routine shifts. Your coffee order does too. You take the longer route home. Not because you have to, but because being there matters more than being somewhere else. 

Anyone can say they would cross the seven seas for you. I’d argue it’s much more telling whether they would cross the street. 

I’ve been reading this quote every day since I moved here. God knows I haven’t figured it out entirely, and maybe I never will. But I’m beginning to understand the tip of the iceberg: being loved isn’t about finding someone willing to dismantle their entire life for you. 

No. 

It’s about finding someone who will make room in the life they’re already living. And ultimately, becoming someone who does the same.