But then, something strange happens between the ages of twenty-five and forty. You stop using the word "like" as a placeholder ( I was, like, so angry ) and start understanding it as a verb.
In its infancy, like is a sprinter. It is fast, hot, and breathless. It is the dopamine hit of a notification, the thrill of a shared meme, the instant camaraderie of agreeing that a certain celebrity is attractive. This young "like" is hungry for validation. It keeps score. It asks, Do they like me back? Am I winning? like matures
And the greatest miracle is this: when your like finally matures, you realize you never really needed the world to like you back. You only needed two or three people to see you clearly. But then, something strange happens between the ages
Not the romantic soulmate—but the toxic expectation that anyone should perfectly mirror you. Immature like is narcissistic: I like you because you are a reflection of me. Mature like is generous: I like you because you are different from me, and I am curious about that difference. It is fast, hot, and breathless