The real kind.

Sometimes I wonder if I've been in love as often as I think I have. To be honest, I hope not because it's too many times for a 28-year-old. I think most of it was "love." Not real love, but rather the feeling you get when you wrap yourself around someone's finger. "Love," the comfort. Not love, the tangible feeling. I fall fast and hard, which is, unfortunately, not a secret. Part of that is naiveté, but I'm afraid to admit that the other part is the very real and intense need to feel. That's not to say I don't otherwise feel. I feel lots of things, very often. But I crave love, which often leads to "love." I want to be loved, and I want to love back.

However, I've learned my lesson over time.

None of this is to say I'm not loved. People love me. I am loved by some of the most amazing people. I feel that, and it's very real. But it's not the kind of love that you're in. That's what I'm waiting for.