Love is all around me, it’s everywhere I go

On any bus there are packed lunches made by somebody for somebody else. Coats bought a size up to last the winter. A phone screen with a child's face on it. A man reading a text and smiling at nothing in particular.

None of it is aimed at you, which is the strange part of a claim this size. The love in a public place isn't yours. It is evidence.

Evidence that the ordinary human default is attachment, running at volume, almost entirely unremarked. You are standing inside it whether or not any of it has your name on.