There are nights when I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and I feel like I’ve been carrying a weight I never asked for. I watch my friends laugh about their weekend adventures, post photos with their partners, celebrate anniversaries, and I can’t help but wonder: When will it be my turn?
I’ve always been good at surviving. I can wake up every morning, put on a smile, go to work, and do all the things expected of me. But deep down, there’s an ache. An ache that whispers: You’re missing something.
I’ve dated before, of course. But more often than not, I found myself pretending—pretending that I didn’t care if he didn’t text back, pretending that I was “fine” when really I wanted to scream: Please, just choose me.
I think about how people overcome their demons—whether it’s alcohol, heartbreak, or the scars of the past. And I realize my demon has always been loneliness. I’ve hidden it behind casual jokes, late-night scrolling, and telling myself that maybe love just isn’t in the cards for me. But the truth? I want it. Desperately.
I want the kind of love that makes the ordinary feel magical. Someone who will sit on the floor with me while we build IKEA furniture, laugh with me about something silly, or hold me on the nights when the silence feels too heavy. I don’t need someone to fix me—I’ve been fixing myself for years. I just need someone to see me. To love me not for the version of myself I polish for the world, but for the messy, complicated, hopeful girl that I really am.
I don’t want to feel like I’m chasing love anymore. I want to feel like I’ve finally found home—in someone’s arms, in someone’s presence, in someone’s heart.
Maybe that’s asking too much. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what I deserve.
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