May love not find me for a long time

To love and be loved — what a privilege that must be.

Moments of pure bliss often find their way to those hopelessly in love, where gleaming eyes and smitten smiles serve as undeniable proof of their raging love. And fair enough, who wouldn’t crave that feeling? The warmth of someone, the idea of being seen, heard, and touched with pure admiration and sincerity. Who wouldn’t want that? Because I’d cast everything aside just to feel that.

But what of the heart that beats alone? The unrequited. The hearts that love in silence, those who love with no guarantee, and those who always seem to find themselves in a world meant for two, walking alone.

As a romantic, I’ve always daydreamed of the day I fall in love, of doing and sharing the things I love with someone special. I imagined it would feel like a scene from a movie, just the two of us, caught up in our world, where only our feelings matter. But fate, I guess, had other plans.

And what I found wasn’t anything like I had pictured — it was a slow unraveling. A quiet undoing that stripped me bare. My last didn’t just leave me aching. It drained the love from me.

Loving someone should be easy, a feeling that comes naturally. But choosing to love them still, without the certainty of them loving you back, is a form of torment — a quiet, unspoken ache that lingers.

And just when you thought you were over them, their ghost comes rushing back, haunting your thoughts, making you revisit the things that never worked out, and leaving you to wonder once more what you were, without the assurance you so desperately pursued.

But love should feel secure and still, steady in its presence. Because when it’s real, they would know how to value your worth without you having to beg for it. And for all that you are, you deserve to be wholly and undeniably loved. It should never feel like begging — secretly longing for more while doubting your worth.

So for now, may love not find me for a long time.

Because the thought of loving again — only to be left bare once more — terrifies me more than being alone ever could. And I know that love isn’t meant to be rushed. It’s something that quietly finds its way when we’ve healed enough to welcome it.