My mind is filled with love stories, but none of them are mine
I have always seen love stories in movies, read about them in books, witnessed them unfold in the lives of others, and even crafted them in the quiet corners of my imagination. These are the kind of stories that linger, occupying space in my thoughts without permission — romances that seem so vibrant, so alive, but remain untouchable like a distant star. Yet among all the stories I hold so dearly in my mind, not a single one belongs to me.
I know the cadence of love — the way it rises like a hymn and falls like a whisper, the way it heals and haunts in equal measure. I’ve watched it bloom in stolen glances and unravel in quiet goodbyes, felt its echoes in the lives it touches, but only as an observer, never as a participant.
I’ve seen its light illuminate the darkest corners of hearts and its shadow linger long after it fades. I’ve heard its song in laughter shared between lovers and its silence in the spaces left behind. Yet, despite all I know, love remains a distant melody, one I have never dared to hum, a story I have never been brave enough to write myself into.
It’s strange, isn’t it? To feel the warmth of love so vividly in the stories I cherish, yet never in the fabric of my reality. I’ve traced its contours through the words of others and felt its echoes in the songs and poems that speak to something deep within me, but it always feels just out of reach — like a shadow I can never grasp. I sometimes wonder if I’m destined to remain the narrator, the one who dreams of love but never lives it, crafting stories of passion and connection while my pages remain unwritten.
I wonder, how does it feel to live inside a love story where you are not merely a spectator but the one who breathes life into its pages? Does the love in that story taste like the sweetness of pancakes drizzled with syrup and a warm mug of hot chocolate on a crisp morning? Or does it taste bitter, like the vegetables your mother used to force onto your plate, each bite a struggle, each chew a reminder of something you couldn’t stomach? Does it feel like the comfort of a favorite blanket on a stormy night, or the ache of shoes that never quite fit, no matter how hard you try to make them yours? Is it both — delight and difficulty, sweetness and sting — woven into a single, unpredictable tapestry?
I wonder if love even knows I’m here, waiting — patiently, desperately — ready to step out of the margins of someone else’s story and into the heart of my own. Does love see me, or am I just a fleeting thought, a character on the periphery, watching as the world spins with lovers entwined?
The love stories of others linger in my mind, vivid and alive, unfolding in the real world as if the universe conspired to bring them together. But what about mine? The love story I’ve imagined for myself feels trapped, confined to the corners of my mind, unable to break free from fantasy and step into reality. I want to feel love — the kind of love I’ve seen on the silver screen, where glances ignite sparks and confessions leave hearts racing. I want the love I’ve read about in books, where every word drips with meaning and every touch feels like destiny. I want a love that exists beyond daydreams, one that breathes and stumbles and grows with me.
I don’t want to merely observe the beauty of love in others or weave it into imaginary tales. I want it to happen here, in my life, where I am no longer the outsider looking in. I want to be the one whose story is told, whose heart races, and whose world shifts in a single moment. I want love to find me, not as a distant muse, but as a tangible, undeniable force that makes me believe I am worthy of the very things I’ve spent so long yearning for.
Perhaps that is the beauty and the ache of it all — being surrounded by love in every form, seeing its light in the lives of others, yet not knowing what it truly feels like to call it my own. For now, I live through the love stories in my mind, tracing their every twist and turn, imagining the warmth, the wonder, and the weight of it. I wait, with quiet hope, for the day when one of those stories breaks free from the walls of my imagination and becomes mine — a love that I can finally hold, feel, and claim as my own.
