“Listen, there actually exists a word that describes your condition!” exclaimed Tanya, my friend.
“My condition?” I was surprised.
“Yes. The fear that you have of falling in love is called Philophobia,” she stated, bubbling with excitement on having learnt a new term.
But she sure was mistaken for I do fall in love. In fact, a bit too much.
I fall in love with the raindrops that meander down the windowpane, tickling my nose with the evocative scent of petrichor; with words that bleed blue on the tenderness of white, creating patterns of inspiration and fulfilled dreams; with the majestic grandeur of scintillating stars, making every atom of me glow with resplendent magnificence; with dancing butterflies and flickering fireflies; with imagination and creativity, with fairytales and wishes coming true; with so much and so much more.
However, what I do fear is to fall madly in love with a man and to hook my heart into his, only to find him drifting away from his exclusively-created-for-us world of forevers and ever afters.
Nothing terrifies me more than the thought that a person loving me for the calm ocean that I usually am, would lose interest in me once I unfold the brutality of my waves; that the brilliance of stars in my eyes appearing sublime to him, would appear sombre after a certain span of time; that my words talking perfect sense into him, would taste like sandpaper- coarse and ugly after he alters me into a person who’s less of me and more of him; that he’d pluck me out from his life for someone else, while I’ll have him dissolved in the very fibres of my being.
Isn’t this scary? I, loving the man with my entirety, which I would, and he, falling out of love after discovering the occasional massive pile of mess that I am? I, infusing my life with his, which I would, and he, running away with every inch of happiness residing in my skin?
Nothing, but the very thought of a heartbreak, fragmenting my soul into a million shards, makes my flesh crawl.
Quite clearly, I do not fear to fall in love but falling in love with a wrong person; with a person who might mistake me for someone shallow when in actual, my deepness could entirely submerge places, let alone people.
Does this fear which saves me from going through the phases of stitching my heart, glueing my bones, and untangling my veins back to usual make me a philophobic?
I dared not ask my friend.
I dared not because if it made me a philophobic, I was pretty cool with it, but in case it didn’t, I was afraid she’d continue her quest for the appropriate word and once she’d find, my brains would’ve to exert yet again as to whether I fit the very bill of the new word.
“Okay, um, which movie are we going for?” I asked, trying to digress from the topic.
“Ha! At least say something about your philophobia, Miss Philophobic,” she teased.
Successful at putting every ounce of strength in stopping my vocal chords from playing their part, my not-yet-proved philophobic self smiled.
I just smiled.