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Lately, I have been embarrassed by how badly I want to fall in love.

Not the kind of love that begins with “let’s see where this goes.” Not someone to text at 2 a.m. because we’re both bored, or someone to kiss because the night feels lonely. Not a person whose name disappears from my phone three weeks later.

I want something serious.
I want the kind that makes me think, oh, this is why none of the others worked.
The kind that makes me feel why every other little moment of my life suddenly feels like something I want to turn around and tell him about.

And maybe that is difficult to admit now because everything around me seems to have learned how to love casually.

People are in talking stages.
Others are in situationships.
Others are “just seeing where it goes.”

Friends are getting crushes that become stories by the end of the semester.
And then there are Instagram reels romanticising the almosts, which somehow always seem to pop-up right before you go to sleep.

Dating has become content.

And sometimes, watching all of it, I wonder if my brain has started asking for more simply because I see more. All of that makes your brain wonder whether you’re supposed to want it too.

I want someone to call.
Someone who asks how my day was.
Someone whose hand I instinctively reach for.
Someone to tell stupid things to.
Someone who knows the ugly, boring, unphotogenic versions of me.

I don’t necessarily want romance as an aesthetic.
I want companionship.

Because having just a boyfriend is not what I want.

I want someone to call mine.
Someone to come home to.

Someone who knows when I’m pretending I’m fine.
Someone who remembers the tiny things I said three months ago.
Someone who wants to hear about the most insignificant part of my day.
Someone who can actually tolerate my anger, like my two best friends do.

I want to be loved in the boring places too.
Even when I am not pretty.
Even when I am sick.
Even when I am difficult.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m asking too much. Or if I’m being unrealistic. Because it is almost funny, wanting all of this when I have never even had it.

Maybe I should have had a relationship that ended badly.
Maybe I should have a story to tell when people ask, “when was your last relationship?”instead of the usual, “haha, never had one.”

Maybe I should have learned how to date without attaching anything to it.
Or let things be casual and stop looking for meaning in everything?

Maybe.
Or, maybe not.

Because, I don’t think my heart knows how to do that very well.

I can pretend I don’t care. I can tell myself not to expect anything.
But underneath all that, sometimes I fall so hard into the idea that I whisper, what if I could be loved properly?

And maybe part of the reason I want so much from love is because I have seen so many different versions of it. I have friends who fell in love and still chose to build their careers alongside each other. I have seen a celebrity couple who seem to be best friends before they are anything else. I have watched my favourite couple make a life through distance, responsibilities, ordinary days and everything in between.

Somewhere along the way, I think I started collecting these little versions of love.
This is why my idea of love has become so embarrassingly specific.

I don’t mean I want the perfect love.
I don’t need a man who arrives knowing every answer to me.
I don’t need some fictional man who never disappoints me, never irritates me, never gets anything wrong.

I just want someone who means it.

Someone who chooses me deliberately.
And someone who doesn’t make me wonder whether I am asking too much wanting to be wanted.

Maybe the love of my life will not come easily.
Maybe it shouldn’t.

How could something that is supposed to become a home in another person arrive as effortlessly as a passing crush? Not so easy.

Perhaps the person I eventually love will first just be some man existing somewhere in the world, completely unaware that one day his name will mean so much to me.

And when he does come, I know I will love him fiercely.

I will love him the way I have learned to love myself, with patience, with attention, with forgiveness, with the strange devotion of knowing someone’s smallest details and still wanting to know more.

But if I’m allowed one selfish wish, I hope he loves me a little more than I know how to love myself.

Not because I want to be rescued.
Not because I want someone to complete me.

But because there is something beautiful about being loved by someone who sees the parts of you that you have learned to overlook and says, “no, I love those too.”

Until then, I suppose I am still here, watching people fall in and out of love, scrolling past couples holding hands, getting irrationally jealous of fictional men, and wanting someone I haven’t met.

And occasionally wondering if I’m late.
But maybe I am not late.

Maybe my story simply hasn’t reached that chapter yet.
And maybe the fact that I have not found him does not mean that I should lower the kind of love I want.

Maybe it just means that, for now, I am still waiting for someone worth making it real with.

during my childhood, i’ve always thought having bestfriends is not my thing.
because whenever i met someone, i’d get attached and emotionally invested. later, they would leave. they never stayed longer than a specific period of time, be it an academic year or summer break.

i’d miss the feeling of having a bestfriend of my own. someone i could call and annoy for hours. someone i could completely call mine, and the someone who had full rights on me & vice versa.

later, when i was in 6th grade or something, i thought having bestfriends was just lame.

or maybe i was simply obssessed with the idea.
or maybe the fear of missing them again made me even clingier.
i don’t blame myself for noticing the constant pattern.
honestly, i don’t blame myself.

because initially, that’s exactly what i’d do.
blame myself for letting them go,
blame myself for not putting in extra effort.
blame myself for thinking from their side too much.

somehow, years went by.
i grew up to be an old lady mentally.
no matter who i met, i’d keep boundaries with everyone.
i’d be prepared to live life alone.
prepared to face situations alone.
prepared for every possible “what if”.
and i met this girl.

she came all the way from another state.
she became my friend.
and i knew she was my go-to person.
i wasn't overly attached. i knew i needed to maintain healthy boundaries and all.

and time flew by.
years and years.
and somehow destiny made us end up in the same place.
somehow, we stuck together.

i never expected someone to know my secrets.
i never expected someone to know what was happening in my life.
i never expected myself to let someone see the
vulnerabilities i was terrified of showing.
but somehow, i ended up being so open with her.

i wanted to call her my bestfriend
but i was afraid.
afraid that it would break too.
afraid that she would leave me too.
just like the others did.

i was scared.
but my fears scared me to hell.
i felt like what i never wanted was about to happen.
we got separated.
we had to maintain distance.
whether it was because of external factors or family,
distance became necessary.
and somehow, life convinced me that the concept of
bestfriends didn’t really exist.

i chose to become unhuman again.
i closed myself off.
i spent most of my time being professional
and disconnected.
i stopped connecting deeply with people.
somehow, a year or two went by.

but there she was again.

the one who never gave up on me.
the one who loved me through the distance and through the
absence from each other’s lives.

and then i realised something.
it was me.
i was the one who never gave people enough space to love me.
i was the one who stopped putting in effort.
i was the one who stopped fighting for what i wanted.

and somehow, we spent 9 years of life together.
and today is her special day.
and i definitely need to celebrate her existence.

— happy birthday, bestfriend.

if you’re reading this,
i just want you to know:

thank you for never giving up on me.
despite the distance.
despite not meeting for years.
despite me not always being there when you needed me.

thank you for loving me throughout.
thank you for making me believe in friendships.
thank you for making me believe in sisterhood.
thank you for bearing with me.
thank you for pulling me out of isolation.
thank you for understanding my anger.
and thank you for your existence.

recently, someone from my past found his way back.
and just like that, we were talking again.

for hours.
for days, maybe.

about life. about people. about everything we don’t usually say out loud.

they were deep talks. and when I say deep, trust me, these are the best convos one will ever have.

like someone is actually listening.
like someone knows you.

these are the ones where you will learn about yourself.
and sometimes you feel a little naked too, cause all your secrets are openly ripped.

somewhere between talking about new friends,
and a love life that’s dry as hell,
he asked me —

“I know you’re the warmest person to have. But who’s yours?”

I smiled. obviously. who doesn’t like hearing something like that?
but the smile didn’t last long.

I had this strange feeling.
like I was standing in a forest, I didn’t recognise.
waiting for someone to come find me.

I didn’t like that feeling.

so I asked him again,
“what do you mean by warmest?”

and his reply — it only gave me chills.
I don’t know what it did to him, but there was tension.

I brushed it off.
I ghosted.
I WENT OFFLINE.

the reply was,
“who is your safest person?
the one you return to
when all the worries lie in your lap,
all the hard days occur at once,
and when fear stays with you like lover.”

that was… poetic.

I sat with myself, questioning again and again.
not because I didn’t understand what he meant — I did.
but because I couldn’t find anyone for the answer.

I judged myself so hard.
is this why you’re nice to everyone?
is this why you spread kindness & love?
is this why you share your shoulder when they shiver?
is this why you defend them in rooms they are absent?
or when they don’t defend themselves enough?

I mean, how come I gave love to everyone,
gave warmth to everyone,
but couldn’t get anything back?

all those good actions,
for what?
to end up a lone wolf?
or just to brush off a question like that?

I feared.
I questioned.
I was genuinely scared.

what if I don’t find my person?
where do I go if something happens to me?
what if I break down completely?
where do I really go?

every thought, every word, every question felt heavy.
my heart felt heavy too.

or maybe the real question is, why did no one come to mind?

and maybe that’s the scariest part of all.
not that I have no safe person, but that I never noticed it until someone asked.

I thought that because I wasn’t feeling anything — because I wasn’t talking, or even responding back — I had nothing left inside of me. I assumed the ache had drained everything. The days were heavy and unbearable.

There were mornings I stared at my phone, watching messages pile up, and still couldn’t bring myself to reply. Not because I didn’t care—but because caring felt too heavy to explain.

When I sat down to journal, I wrote routines, not feelings. I realised then that something inside me had died last year.

But that wasn’t happening at all.

I wasn’t empty.
I wasn’t hollow.
I was just hiding.

I was hiding the carefree little girl.
Affection I learned to tuck away instead of offering freely.
I was hiding care that had nowhere to land.

I hid because being soft in the wrong hands taught me caution. And I don’t blame myself for that.

After yearning, I didn’t become cold. I became careful. I learned how to love without touching, how to feel deeply without disrupting anyone’s life, how to carry tenderness quietly. And because none of it was visible, I assumed I was empty.

We live in a world where loud emotions are recognised.
If you’re laughing, you must be fine.
If you’re not asking, you must not care.
If you’re not chasing, you must be over it.

I told myself, this was just another heartbreak — you’ll move on.
Then I said, I am moving on.
Then I will move on.

Eventually, I admitted it was yearning.
Little did I know — it wasn’t any of what I thought.
The truth was simpler: I was just learning how to love without expecting anything in return.

And in that process, I discovered how much I carry.

Months later, when I looked back at my journal, I found love everywhere.
In sentences, in observations.

Love in a boy blushing while talking about his girl.
Love in someone rushing home just to eat their Amma’s food.
Love in the smallest, most ordinary things.

One day, I caught myself smiling at a stranger—and realised it wasn’t effort anymore. Love had started flowing outward without permission.

Slowly, I saw myself becoming more loving.
Positive words replaced heavier ones.
I found myself giving compliments to my friends.
Luck seemed to follow me.
Cats and dogs ran toward me, tails wagging.
Babies laughed when they rested in my arms.

That’s when I understood—I was never empty.

I was becoming.

And that was the moment I learned something that still stays with me:

How could I ever look for love, when I was the love all along?

I want you, knowing you’d never come.

I should’ve hugged you tighter the last time we met.

I don’t know why the ‘me’ is still trying, still hoping, still living with what-if scenarios despite knowing this was never her.

She knows she isn’t the type of woman that stops for someone or something.

She knows she isn’t the type of woman who wants something that doesn’t return.

Every day, every minute, every second, only one thought runs through my mind — I wish he would appear in front of me. Even knowing I will never talk to you, never dare to meet your eyes, never cross the invisible line that keeps us apart.

One moment from you would be the death of me.
I’d run for it. I’d kill for it.
And yet, everything feels like I don’t have legs to run or hands to kill.
All helpless.
Still, I close my eyes at every 11:11.

I imagine stopping every obstacle in your way, as if by magic, as if the universe itself conspired to make it easy for you.
And if you ever noticed, if you ever smiled at that miracle, I would pretend I did nothing — that it was all fate. That is the paradox of loving you: the part of me that cares the most must remain hidden.

I pray. I still do.

A part of me will always love you, no matter what. And somehow, this quiet love has given me a gift.

It has softened me.

It has taught me to find beauty in the smallest things:

• A man who seems unapproachable, melting when he looks at the woman he loves

• A child jumping with joy over something as simple as candy

• The sky blooming in colours

• The scent of the air, heaven-like, when the first drop of rain falls

• A dog wagging its tail, following its human loyally, joyfully, without question

• Sparkling stars at night

All of this makes me smile.
All of this makes me soften.
Because somewhere deep in me, that part that loves you — quietly — has spread into the world.

And yet, I still ache.
I ache in the quiet corners of my day, in the half-light of early mornings, in the last moments before sleep.
I ache for you, for what will never be, for the impossible ‘if’ that floats like smoke between us.

Even in longing, I have learned to feel.
Even in absence, I have learned to love.

I miss you.
And perhaps, I always will.
And yet, for the first time, I can look at the world and smile.
Because a part of me, the part that loves quietly, still whispers — life is beautiful, even when it is not ours.

I thought by now it would. I really did. I thought I’d wake up one morning lighter and my lungs would feel like mine again. I thought I’d be out there with my friends eating ice cream. But no. Instead, I just sit in a corner of the room where everything still flashes in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut as if it’ll block the memories from coming in.

I believed people when they said, “Time fixes everything.”

That was my first mistake.

I should have just smiled and let them think I agreed. Instead, I clung to it like a promise, and it only left me more broken when the days passed and nothing changed.

It’s strange — one week you’ll be fine and then that one song pops in your feed. And in one minute ten seconds, it will drag you into the past like nothing’s changed — as if the year between then and now never existed.

There are moments when the pain feels so physical — like my body is trying to reach something that isn’t there. Sometimes it happens in the middle of a crowded street, and sometimes when I am supposed to sleep.

I don’t talk to you anymore. I ignore the whisper of your name, your presence when you look my way. But I still avoid walking down the place where we used to meet. I avoid the places, people, and things that remind me of you — only to end up crying at 2 a.m. for two straight hours.

Most days, I convince myself I’m doing better — that the distance I’ve created is strength. That by not seeing you, not hearing you, not giving you the space in my days, I’m somehow reclaiming myself. But it’s a strange kind of recovery — the kind where you’re breathing, laughing, living — yet a part of you is still frozen in the exact moment you lost what you loved.

I’ve learned to smile in photographs and hold conversations without letting my voice crack. But healing is not the same as erasing. The memories don’t dissolve just because I refuse to speak them aloud. They hide under the surface, waiting for an unlocked moment — a quiet walk, a certain light in the sky, a line in a movie — and suddenly, I’m back there again.

People like to talk about closure as if it’s a door you get to shut yourself. But sometimes, it’s not even your door to close. Sometimes, all you can do is live with it. And maybe that’s why I’m writing this — my first article — because I want to put something out there that’s unpolished, honest, and real.

And maybe that’s the truth no one tells you about moving on — that it’s not a clean break or a sudden lightness. It’s carrying the weight better. It’s learning to live without setting it down.