Love, Perhaps, Was Never Meant for Me

“Love… this privilege is not for me.” That sentence felt like a mirror. I stared at it for a long while, then smiled bitterly, because perhaps it was true — I have never been lucky when it comes to love.

I once loved someone for so long that time itself began to lose its meaning. For years, I waited without knowing what exactly I was waiting for. She was with my friend once; I knew that, and I never dared to challenge a fate that seemed written long before I arrived. But somehow, things changed — she began to offer something that looked like hope. Her smile, her greetings, the smallest gestures that meant little to others but were enough to make me wonder: Was this a sign? Did she truly accept me? Yet the more I tried to understand, the more everything grew uncertain. I felt like I was standing in a fog — unsure of the path, unsure if my steps were right, yet walking anyway. And when I finally realized that my feelings had become nothing more than a small game in her life, it was already too late.

Then came another woman. This time, I didn’t know if it was love or simply the habit of not being alone. She often went back to her ex — to a love that refused to die — while I was nothing more than a quiet corner in her world, a place to rest before she returned to someone else. I was always there when she fell, yet never chosen when she stood tall again. And I learned that being a backburner in someone’s life hurts far more than not being loved at all.

Maybe that’s why I’m tired. Tired of loving without direction. Tired of waiting for words that will never come.

Until one day, I met her — the woman who, the moment I saw her, made time pause for a brief, impossible second. There was calmness in her eyes, something tender that made me believe she was the one I had been searching for all along. For the first time, I thought the universe was finally being kind to me. But conviction, like love, can vanish without warning. She began to change. Suddenly, my messages were left unanswered. The little stories we once shared became forbidden to remember. And I knew — perhaps her heart had found its way back to the past, to the place she once called home.

I wasn’t angry. I simply wondered in silence: why did she have to disappear without a word, as if I had committed some unforgivable sin?

Forgetting is never easy. How could I erase someone who still breathes within my thoughts? So I chose silence. I kept my feelings neatly folded, like a letter never sent. Maybe someday, when time no longer aches, I’ll unfold it again — not to regret, but to remember that I once loved with complete honesty. And I will keep believing that she is the one I’ve been waiting for. I will keep loving her — quietly, in silence, and in my prayers.

And even if the universe never brings her back to me, I will still move forward. Because love, perhaps, was never meant to be owned — only remembered.

Love, perhaps, was never meant for me