Surprisingly, most people don't.
I read somewhere that the difference between the two is that being in love is a short-term experience, while love takes time to grow.
The funny thing about both is that neither have ever applied to me.
Don't bother asking me why. One day, I just realized that I would never be in love or be loved. That realization hit me like a train.
The world is a strange place. Your treatment is often based on your looks and charm, your life's trajectory is usually predetermined from birth, and the social system is a whole other story.
For me, everything is bottom. I wonder how people at the top live... I wonder...
Speaking of, here I am right now, showcasing what it means to be at the bottom of the barrel begging for scraps.
....
"Ma'am, could you be so kind as to spare me some bread?"
I look at her, trying to make my face as cute as possible—an impossible act, considering how ugly I am.
The look I receive in response speaks volumes. It's the look of someone who believes they are superior, someone I've come to call a 'Prance '—a person who looks down on the underprivileged and believes they don't deserve anything.
I hate these people...
"Sorry, kid, I got no bread to spare."
Her voice sounds just like I had imagined. High-pitched and snobby.
The door slams in my face.
I heave a heavy sigh. It's nothing I haven't experienced before, so it doesn't hurt as much anymore.
The walk back to the orphanage empty-handed felt like walking through quicksand and slowly sinking.
Fwick--
The lights in the alleyway I'm walking through turn on, signifying that it's now past 7:30 PM.
As I cut through a secret passage, I notice some off-putting sights.
I can't be 100% sure, but it feels like I'm being watched. Living on the streets has heightened my senses enough to allow me to sense things normal people can't.
I speed up about 20% and exit the passage. I can hear faint--very faint footsteps following me around 20 metres behind.
The noise disappears, and I halt right where I am.
"Come out! I know you're there!"
My voice echoes through the alley, amplifying the message.
There is no response.
To my horror, what emerges from the shadows is something I could only dream of.
Standing parallel to me is a creature with the head, front legs, and wings of an eagle and the tail, back legs, and torso of a lion.
You guessed it, it's a griffin, straight from Greek mythology.
I must be dreaming--right? This sight isn't real, and I must be in bed right now, about to wake up from this nightmare.
My delusions are cut short by the sound of the baby griffin cawing in pain.
It lets out a weak "skree" and looks to me pleadingly.
Finally, my nerves calm down, and I can assess the situation normally.
From the little knowledge I have of Greek mythology, I scrounge up a solution that might leave me with the fewest scratches.
I rip my already raggedy shirt and fashion it into a makeshift tourniquet.
Next, and this is the hardest part, I have to get close to the griffin and, as carefully and quietly as possible, wrap it around the wound it has on its wing.
Luckily, the griffin seemed cooperative and trusting, letting me get close and tie on the tourniquet.
I know I did a good job when the little monster released a little "coo" in return.
"Okay, buddy, I think it's time for you to return to whatever hellhole you crawled out of."
It tilts its head in confusion.
I can't bother to make sense of whether it understood or not, so I turn around and stride home.
I hear a desperate "caw!!" behind me, which can only mean one thing.
This little monster is now my little monster.
Fuck.
How am I going to explain this to the orphanage director?