Wish it was me
When I was twelve, I thought I knew what love was. It wasn’t a grand feeling, not the kind that sweeps you off your feet, but something much quieter, softer—like the way his eyes danced when he smiled. I loved how he lit up when his favorite band came on, like the world around us faded and he existed in a place I could never quite reach. That’s what I fell for—the way music transformed him, the way his smile could make everything seem brighter. But at twelve, I didn’t understand that loving someone because they feel distant isn’t love at all. It’s longing.
At fifteen, love felt more tangible, more real, or so I believed. I fell in love with a boy who laughed when I said things, even if they weren’t particularly funny. He got me roses when my favorite flower was a carnation, but I didn’t mind then. I didn’t care that he never asked. He talked about his future, never ours, but I thought that was normal. I thought he was everything I wanted, because at fifteen, you think love is something simple, something that blooms without effort. You don’t realize yet that love is supposed to grow in both directions.
When I was twenty-one, the illusion broke. The same boy who once laughed with me now yelled when I panicked. He couldn’t handle my anxieties, my fears, and instead of offering comfort, he made me feel like my worry was a burden, something too heavy to carry. I wasn’t on top of the world anymore; it felt like I’d been pushed off a cliff. Everything I thought I’d built with him—every shared laugh, every whispered dream—shattered in an instant. And then he moved on. Chose someone else, chose the next day without me. It’s funny how love can feel like a promise until the moment it becomes a choice, and you realize you were never chosen.
At twenty-two, I fell in love again, though I hesitate to call it that now. I fell for a man who didn’t love me back, who never could. He was distant, stubborn, closed off in ways I couldn’t quite understand. He felt like a myth—unreachable, untouchable. I loved him because I didn’t know any better. I loved him because I thought love was supposed to be hard, something you fought for, something you gave yourself to until there was nothing left. I loved him because, for years, I had learned to give pieces of myself to everyone else. And the truth is, I didn’t fall in love with him because he was special—I fell in love with the idea that maybe I could be special enough to change him. But I never was. And I knew that, deep down, all along.
Now, at twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight, I’ve let go of what I thought romantic love was supposed to be. Because all the movies, the books, the stories—they got it wrong. My family got it wrong. Love isn’t simple, and it certainly isn’t easy. It’s hard. Messy. It demands more than it gives. And I’ve grown tired of believing in something that feels so fickle, so fragile. I find myself wondering if I ever truly loved them at all, or if I was just grasping for something I thought I was missing in myself. Was I in love with them, or was I in love with the idea of them? Was I trying so hard to make them fit into the mold of what I wanted that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me?
But even with all that, I still hope. I hope that love, if it comes, will hit me like a train. I hope it doesn’t ask for permission but just crashes into me, erasing everything I thought love was, all the flawed ideas and broken memories. I hope it rewrites the story. I hope I relearn myself—who I am, what I want, what I’m capable of giving and receiving. I hope it makes me want to feel everything again, from the first spark to the final breath, without looking back, without regret.
Because maybe, just maybe, love is worth it. And maybe, when it finally comes, I’ll recognize it for what it truly is. Not longing. Not sacrifice. But something real. Something lasting. Something I can finally call my own. Until then, I’ll keep hoping.
