Do we fall out of love, or stop choosing it?

The lost art of loving like Elizabeth and Darcy

Pride & Prejudice 2005 film

We have forgotten what romance really is. When I think of what romance used to mean, I think of letters written by candlelight, slow-burning desire and loyalty earned through time, like those shown through films such as Pride and Prejudice. And maybe that’s the heart of it: we don’t know how to love anymore. Not really. Our generation is obsessed with beginnings-with infatuation, with moments that sparkle. We swipe, ghost, block, chase, and replace. We’ve mistaken adrenaline for intimacy. As soon as things calm down, we panic. We think the love is gone simply because it’s no longer loud. No longer cinematic. But love isn’t meant to be a fireworks show every day. Love is found in the decision to stay, to keep choosing someone long after the honeymoon phase ends. It's a shame that we’ve collectively become scared of being vulnerable, scared of giving, scared of staying.

I don’t think love should be easy, but I do think it should be intentional. You don’t fall into it. You build it. You return to it even when you’re tired. You discuss, you compromise, you stay. And yet I keep seeing people give up before even trying. Or worse, they cheat, they disappear, they gaslight, just to chase the next thrill. Maybe that’s why this hurt so much.

And maybe I notice all this, the way our generation mishandles love because I’ve felt the weight of it myself. Not as an outside observer, but as someone who believed, wholeheartedly, in something that was meant to last. A month ago, I sat across from someone I loved, someone I had built a quiet future with, saying the typical phrase ‘I don’t feel the spark anymore.’ It felt ridiculous at first, like he was throwing away something real because it didn’t feel new anymore. I thought we were just tired. Life had consumed both of us, and we were getting busy. But I was still choosing him. Even when things calmed down, even when we spoke less, I stayed. Because to me, that’s what love is, staying, especially when it’s not loud.

I don’t think the breakup was inevitable. I don’t believe love is always destined to end, like some expiry date is printed on the first kiss. But I do think we live in a world where people don’t understand what love actually is. We romanticise the beginning, especially the rush, the excitement, the passion and we forget to teach each other how to stay. We’ve lost the art of the long game. We no longer value tension and resolution; we value instant validation. If Elizabeth lived today, she might block Darcy after their first argument, and he’d probably attempt to get ‘male validation’ from his past situationships or post pathetic quotes he found on Pinterest about missing his ex. But in Austen’s world, pride could be softened, prejudice could be unlearned, and people could earn each other’s love- not just fall into it. And isn’t that the kind of love we all secretly want? The kind where someone sees your sharp edges and still chooses to lean in? We walk away the moment things get difficult, or worse, we wait for someone new to spark the same excitement, never realising that love was never supposed to be fireworks forever. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy didn’t fall in love at first sight. They misunderstood each other. They clashed. They judged. But through time, introspection, and quiet transformation, they saw each other more clearly, then came love. That arc of emotional maturity is what modern relationships so often lack.

“Love is not a state of enthusiasm. It's a verb. It implies action, demonstration, ritual, practices, communication, expression. It's the ability to take responsibility of one's own behavior. ”
― Natasha Lunn, Conversations on Love

Rereading Pride and Prejudice reminds me that love isn’t always loud, or wild, or immediate. Sometimes, it’s slow and steady. Sometimes it shows up after you’ve hurt each other. That’s what we’ve forgotten. That love is less about the moment it begins, and more about whether we’re willing to keep choosing it, even after we mess up.

And that’s where I am now. Sitting in the aftermath, rebuilding. Understanding that maybe I wasn’t made to be loved by everyone I give love to. Maybe my role- at least for now, is to show people how to be loved, not necessarily to be loved in return. That doesn’t mean I’ll never be. It just means right now, I’m learning to pour all that love I gave him back into myself.

There’s power in that. There’s healing in that. It’s not weakness to want something real. It’s not pathetic to choose someone again and again. The problem is never in feeling deeply, it’s in being surrounded by people who are too afraid to feel at all.

So, I’ll keep choosing softness. I’ll keep believing in love that stays. And until I find someone who understands what that means, I’ll keep choosing me.

Much love,

Hannah

special mention to the hand scene that’s got everyone in a chokehold

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