Oh and the fucking poetry. Usually it was Yeats, writing and wroughting over a woman homer sung some shit about.
But dammit, I felt it to my core. It was passionate and romantic in the classical sense. Grand gestures, outrageous jealousies, and a lot of dry humping.
Then I became an adult and it changed. All the lessons she tried to teach me back then took twenty years of fucking it up to finally get it through my head.
Jealousy isn't love.
Grand gestures are all fine and good and even a lot of fun, but the good shit... nah, that's not the big serenades and fat diamonds. It's noticing when she says something reminds her of an aunt she idolized growing up and coming back for it when she's not looking. It's getting him ice cream for no other reason than he likes it. It's having each others backs even when you disagree. It's a whole lot of little things that maybe only matter to her/him, but that's the biggest reason they matter to you.
It's other shit too, but the dogs need to be let out so you'll have to figure it out for yourself.
Oh, one last thing for the fellas: women are better at this than we are (which is why I am shocked more of them aren't lesbians). Fortunately for us, they don't expect us to be as good as they are, they just expect us to make a fucking effort. You lazy fucking twat.