Maybe this chapter—
this life, this ache—
isn’t about love.
At least not the kind I dream of
when the nights stretch on too long.
Perhaps it’s about seeing love everywhere,
in the way the sky blushes at dawn,
in the quiet hum of a lonely room,
in the broken places of my own reflection.

Self-love.
That’s what they call it.
A soft, gentle promise—
“You can be enough for yourself.”
It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?
Like a song you want to believe in.
And yes, there’s freedom in being alone.
I can breathe.
I can wander.
I can build a life that asks for no one.

But when I’m honest—
beneath all that strength,
beneath the facades I wear like armor,
I am hollow.
I am aching.
I long for love.

Maybe it’s because I never had a home.
No warm hands to hold me steady,
no soft voices to call me safe.
Or maybe because my home died
when I was fourteen—
when the only person who ever loved me
left me with silence.
And I learned, far too young,
that grief wears many faces.
Sometimes, it’s an empty chair at the dinner table.
Sometimes, it’s a house that echoes
with everything unsaid.

I grew up without a map,
without someone to show me
what love feels like.
How to give it. How to receive it.
And so, I searched for it in empty places—
in hands that took pieces of me
but never stayed.
In words that felt warm for a moment
but turned cold by morning.

Love is a mystery.
A lighthouse glowing in the fog,
always visible, always distant,
calling me toward something
I can never quite touch.
They talk about love
like it’s simple, like it’s everywhere,
but why does it feel
like it was never meant for me?

If my father,
or anyone from the ruins of my family,
could not love me—
who could?

Being alone is safer.
Easier.
Here, no one leaves.
Here, no one promises
what they cannot give.
But no matter how much I build,
no matter how much I hold myself together,
there’s a space inside me
where the ache lives.
And I long for love.

So much so,
I would give everything I am to have it.
Can you love me as much as I hate myself?
Can you fill the void with something real?
Steady hands, steady words,
to calm the storms that live in me.
Can you love me in a way
that makes the silence feel less heavy,
that makes the mirror show something
other than cracks and shadows?

Please.
Please, love me.
Because I cannot.
I’ve tried.
God knows, I’ve tried.
But every time I reach for the person I see—
she slips through my fingers.
She feels small, unworthy,
a puzzle with missing pieces
no one wants to find.

Love me,
because maybe, if you do—
if someone sees me,
truly sees me—
I’ll believe I’m not broken.
Maybe one day,
I won’t need to beg.
Maybe one day,
I’ll stand alone,
look in the mirror,
and whisper,
“I am enough.”