My girlfriend is quite unfamiliar with love. More precisely, she doesn't understand what being loved means.

I met her when she was a new employee at the company. One day, she disappeared, saying she was sick. The next day, she still couldn't come to work.

• Are you okay? – I texted her.

• Oh, I'm in the hospital.

Knowing she was alone with no family, I went to visit her. The doctor said she had a high fever, took medication haphazardly without seeking proper treatment. Luckily, a neighbor found her and took her to the hospital.

I asked why she didn't go to the hospital earlier. She said she wasn't used to it.

• Back then, my mom gave birth to me at home while my dad was out drinking. – She said, half proudly, half cheerfully.

I was silent. Why did not going to the hospital become a badge of honor?

When our relationship began, I noticed she was love-struck.

She noted all my habits and preferences, doing everything to please me. All these acts were like rituals, and I was the deity in her life.

She didn't like receiving gifts from me. And particularly, she smoked a lot of weed and drank heavily.

I can't forget the image of her, singing happily with a cheap bottle of vodka from the supermarket, a joint in hand. That decadent pleasure, the way she immersed herself in that vice, chilled me.

• It's my habit? – I responded.

Maybe my tone was a bit loud; she seemed scared. She timidly nodded:

• Yeah. With my ex, we used to express love like this. I bought weed and alcohol, he smoked them. We would lie down, daydreaming. He said that was true love.

I tried to stay calm. Approaching her, I gently held her hand. I softly said:

• That's not true love. It should be like this…

I touched her cheek, told her she was beautiful. "I also like your butt." - I said. "Even though it's flat."

She blushed. I smiled slightly, telling her she could smoke weed and drink if she wanted. "But that's not love." I whispered. "It's just weed and alcohol. Sometimes, it's harmful to you."

She swallowed. And when I undressed her, her body was scarred. "My ex said those were love battle scars." I didn't respond, and just made love to her, in the gentlest way.

That day, she cried. She said it was the first time making love without pain.

She gradually learned to love herself more. On weekends, she often went out with friends, then continued jogging at night. She was still addicted to alcohol and weed, but she reduced it.

On her birthday, I gave her a new outfit. It was something she had wanted for a long time. Seeing it, she was extremely delighted. She wore it and admired herself in the mirror. She hugged me, excited like a child.

That night, we lay together. She intertwined her fingers in my short hair, then whispered:

• Maybe this is love, right?

I smiled, nodding slightly. Maybe it would take much longer for her to understand that enduring sickness at home isn't something to be proud of, addiction isn't true love, and scars shouldn't be battle honors if they make her uncomfortable.

But I believe, now she no longer confuses abuse with love.

My girlfriend is quite unfamiliar with love. More precisely, she doesn't understand what being loved means.

I met her when she was a new employee at the company. One day, she disappeared, saying she was sick. The next day, she still couldn't come to work.

• Are you okay? – I texted her.

• Oh, I'm in the hospital.

Knowing she was alone with no family, I went to visit her. The doctor said she had a high fever, took medication haphazardly without seeking proper treatment. Luckily, a neighbor found her and took her to the hospital.

I asked why she didn't go to the hospital earlier. She said she wasn't used to it.

• Back then, my mom gave birth to me at home while my dad was out drinking. – She said, half proudly, half cheerfully.

I was silent. Why did not going to the hospital become a badge of honor?

When our relationship began, I noticed she was love-struck.

She noted all my habits and preferences, doing everything to please me. All these acts were like rituals, and I was the deity in her life.

She didn't like receiving gifts from me. And particularly, she smoked a lot of weed and drank heavily.

I can't forget the image of her, singing happily with a cheap bottle of vodka from the supermarket, a joint in hand. That decadent pleasure, the way she immersed herself in that vice, chilled me.

• It's my habit? – I responded.

Maybe my tone was a bit loud; she seemed scared. She timidly nodded:

• Yeah. With my ex, we used to express love like this. I bought weed and alcohol, he smoked them. We would lie down, daydreaming. He said that was true love.

I tried to stay calm. Approaching her, I gently held her hand. I softly said:

• That's not true love. It should be like this…

I touched her cheek, told her she was beautiful. "I also like your butt." - I said. "Even though it's flat."

She blushed. I smiled slightly, telling her she could smoke weed and drink if she wanted. "But that's not love." I whispered. "It's just weed and alcohol. Sometimes, it's harmful to you."

She swallowed. And when I undressed her, her body was scarred. "My ex said those were love battle scars." I didn't respond, and just made love to her, in the gentlest way.

That day, she cried. She said it was the first time making love without pain.

She gradually learned to love herself more. On weekends, she often went out with friends, then continued jogging at night. She was still addicted to alcohol and weed, but she reduced it.

On her birthday, I gave her a new outfit. It was something she had wanted for a long time. Seeing it, she was extremely delighted. She wore it and admired herself in the mirror. She hugged me, excited like a child.

That night, we lay together. She intertwined her fingers in my short hair, then whispered:

• Maybe this is love, right?

I smiled, nodding slightly. Maybe it would take much longer for her to understand that enduring sickness at home isn't something to be proud of, addiction isn't true love, and scars shouldn't be battle honors if they make her uncomfortable.

But I believe, now she no longer confuses abuse with love.