A friend asked me why I haven't been in a relationship for so long.
I was momentarily speechless.
It's not that I don't have an answer — it's that I have too many. They pile up like an old, dusty book; the moment you flip it open, memories come tumbling down, and you don't even know where to begin.
I always say I'm letting fate decide, but most of them don't believe me.
In an age that worships efficiency, "letting fate decide" sounds like a cop-out, an evasion, a respectable excuse for cowardice. But it's not that I don't long for love — I just don't want to rush into a relationship just to escape loneliness.
I've always believed that love shouldn't be an emergency light that switches on to fill a void. It should be a lamp that glows into being, naturally, in the deep of the night. It doesn't need to dazzle or blaze — just enough warmth to see each other as we truly are, and to see those hidden thoughts we're reluctant to share.
Some people say I'm too idealistic, that I romanticize love too much.
But the truth is, I've never asked for a perfect person — I only want genuine understanding.
I want someone to notice that the song I play on repeat isn't just because of the melody, but because one summer many years ago, I listened to it in the rain. I want someone to wonder why I always write with the same color pen, why the third shelf on my bookcase is always left slightly empty, why I fall silent every time I watch the sea.
These tiny, insignificant details may mean nothing to anyone else. But to me, they're the pieces that make me whole.
It's not that I'm hard to get along with — I just remember too carefully, and for too long.
My heart is like an old book filled with annotations. It needs someone willing to read slowly, page by page — not someone who takes one look at the cover and confidently declares they've already seen this story before.
The wounds from the past are still here, too. They're like tiny splinters buried beneath the skin — silent most days, but they ache on damp, rainy afternoons. I don't expect anyone to save me. I just hope that when someone sees these scars, they won't ask impatiently why I can't just let things go.
I've envied people who love decisively and leave cleanly.
But I can't do that.
My view of love is as old-fashioned as a handwritten letter — spreading out the paper, dipping the pen in ink, weighing every sentence with care, and after sending it off, waiting with nervous anticipation for a reply that may never come.
Maybe this era has already grown used to a faster pace — getting to know someone quickly, getting close quickly, and saying goodbye quickly. But I still want to wait for someone who believes in "slow" the same way I do.
Someone who wants to know the story behind that sunset photo I've had on my Moments for three years. Someone who understands why I always listen to the same piece of instrumental music late at night. Someone who won't treat me as just another option, but will walk toward me with sincerity and certainty.
So no — it's not that I don't want to fall in love.
I just want a love that's truly worth it.
It doesn't have to be earth-shattering. I just want it to be like a stream flowing over stones — natural, clear, and lasting. Two people who don't come together out of loneliness, and don't leave in a hurry when the novelty fades, but slowly, over the long days, come to understand each other and catch each other when they fall.
Until that person appears, I'd rather stay on my own little island.
It's not that I'm refusing to let anyone in, or putting on airs of superiority.
I'm just waiting for a ship that's willing to slow down, to carefully make out the lighthouse, and to finally decide to dock.
Day 61 of 2026
A friend asked me why I haven't been in a relationship for so long.
I was momentarily speechless.
It's not that I don't have an answer — it's that I have too many. They pile up like an old, dusty book; the moment you flip it open, memories come tumbling down, and you don't even know where to begin.
I always say I'm letting fate decide, but most of them don't believe me.
In an age that worships efficiency, "letting fate decide" sounds like a cop-out, an evasion, a respectable excuse for cowardice. But it's not that I don't long for love — I just don't want to rush into a relationship just to escape loneliness.
I've always believed that love shouldn't be an emergency light that switches on to fill a void. It should be a lamp that glows into being, naturally, in the deep of the night. It doesn't need to dazzle or blaze — just enough warmth to see each other as we truly are, and to see those hidden thoughts we're reluctant to share.
Some people say I'm too idealistic, that I romanticize love too much.
But the truth is, I've never asked for a perfect person — I only want genuine understanding.
I want someone to notice that the song I play on repeat isn't just because of the melody, but because one summer many years ago, I listened to it in the rain. I want someone to wonder why I always write with the same color pen, why the third shelf on my bookcase is always left slightly empty, why I fall silent every time I watch the sea.
These tiny, insignificant details may mean nothing to anyone else. But to me, they're the pieces that make me whole.
It's not that I'm hard to get along with — I just remember too carefully, and for too long.
My heart is like an old book filled with annotations. It needs someone willing to read slowly, page by page — not someone who takes one look at the cover and confidently declares they've already seen this story before.
The wounds from the past are still here, too. They're like tiny splinters buried beneath the skin — silent most days, but they ache on damp, rainy afternoons. I don't expect anyone to save me. I just hope that when someone sees these scars, they won't ask impatiently why I can't just let things go.
I've envied people who love decisively and leave cleanly.
But I can't do that.
My view of love is as old-fashioned as a handwritten letter — spreading out the paper, dipping the pen in ink, weighing every sentence with care, and after sending it off, waiting with nervous anticipation for a reply that may never come.
Maybe this era has already grown used to a faster pace — getting to know someone quickly, getting close quickly, and saying goodbye quickly. But I still want to wait for someone who believes in "slow" the same way I do.
Someone who wants to know the story behind that sunset photo I've had on my Moments for three years. Someone who understands why I always listen to the same piece of instrumental music late at night. Someone who won't treat me as just another option, but will walk toward me with sincerity and certainty.
So no — it's not that I don't want to fall in love.
I just want a love that's truly worth it.
It doesn't have to be earth-shattering. I just want it to be like a stream flowing over stones — natural, clear, and lasting. Two people who don't come together out of loneliness, and don't leave in a hurry when the novelty fades, but slowly, over the long days, come to understand each other and catch each other when they fall.
Until that person appears, I'd rather stay on my own little island.
It's not that I'm refusing to let anyone in, or putting on airs of superiority.
I'm just waiting for a ship that's willing to slow down, to carefully make out the lighthouse, and to finally decide to dock.