Don’t do anything to make him love you. There is nothing to be done. Men seldom seem to figure this out intuitively, but love isn’t a noun, it’s a verb. Love is not something you find or lose. Love is something you do or don’t do. It’s not a feeling that washes over you only to dry up later. There are so many things that men mistake for love. Novelty, intrigue, suspense, sensation, passion. Mysteriously, the heavens open, and a hot summer rain comes down on him, and the man stands awed. Ah, it is love, and now I am made new. And yet he is not new. Does he have what it takes to find his sense of awe after the rain? We can’t know, but we can’t have it for him.
There’s an art to love; it takes discipline, it takes daily practice. You do it, or you don’t do it. And the first day is easier than the third. You can get out of practice, and it can seem so difficult, even impossible. You start again, each day, and you strengthen that ability. It’s a long road, and there is much to be done and nothing to be done. It’s simpler than it looks. There is nothing to find and nothing to lose, and yet everything we are and everything we might be is waiting like scattered diamonds on that road.