It’s often said that men must stay strong through even their darkest battles. But what’s forgotten is that strength still lives in hands that tremble when reaching out for help. Women are told to remain soft, as if softness alone could prevent pain. Yet, when forced to pretend they aren’t breaking, time and time again, they begin to fracture, leaving behind sharp edges. Everyone hurts, even in languages they haven’t learned to speak. I’ve been offered love before, never whole, but in pieces people were willing to share. They loved the version of me that smiled easily, the one who folded herself small to fit neatly into their comfort zone. But I don’t fit. I never have. I test people, pull them from the safety of what they know into the wild of what they don’t. I don’t want love that arrives with a rule book. I can’t follow a checklist forged as care. I want to be truly seen. I want my scars to be tended to, without needing to be justified. I want to speak when I’m ready, and still be chosen in the silence. I want someone who stays when the hope is gone, when the quiet stretches too long, when I’m more tangled than anyone should ever be, when the walls I built to survive start to collapse. What even are humans without love? Just husks, souls trapped in bodies carrying stories no one will ever read. Screaming into a silence we’ve mistaken for normal. I don’t want a love that turns my bleeding into some symmetrical artwork to be analyzed. I want someone who sees the mess of my mind and doesn’t flinch. Someone who hears the tremble in my voice and leans in closer. I want a love that fits mine, not perfect or polished, just real. Just present. One that calms the noise I carry. I don’t want to earn love through performance. I want it returned, not earned, not bargained for, just given. Freely. Fully. Unconditionally. I need someone to hold me like I’m everything, especially in the moments I feel like nothing. That’s all I’ve ever searched for.