I just want to be loved

Loved, But Still Lonely

I just want to feel loved.

Not in the loud, performative way. Not in promises or late-night apologies.

I want to feel it in the quiet moments — when nothing is wrong and nothing needs fixing.

I want to feel chosen without having to ask.

Reassured without having to beg.

Loved in a way that doesn’t make me question my place in someone’s life.

Sometimes I ask myself if I’m difficult to love.

If I feel too deeply.

If my expectations are unreasonable.

If wanting honesty, consistency, and effort is somehow asking for the impossible.

I wonder when wanting reassurance became a flaw.

When needing effort turned into neediness.

When asking for clarity started sounding like an accusation.

The truth is, I’ve learned how to survive on crumbs.

Small gestures. Half-effort affection. Love that only shows up after I cry about it.

I tell myself it’s enough because leaving feels harder than staying.

I tell myself that at least I’m loved sometimes.

That at least they don’t leave.

That at least there are good days — even if they’re becoming harder to remember.

I became very good at waiting.

Waiting for texts.

Waiting for apologies.

Waiting for someone to love me the way they promised they would.

Waiting has become second nature.

Waiting for moods to change.

Waiting for reassurance to feel genuine.

Waiting for effort that doesn’t feel forced or temporary.

People think wanting love means wanting too much.

But I don’t want perfection.

I just don’t want to feel alone while lying next to someone who says they love me.

I don’t want to beg for affection or negotiate my worth.

I don’t want to explain why certain things hurt me.

I want to be with someone who notices, who cares enough to ask, who doesn’t need reminders to be gentle.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m difficult to love, or if I’ve just been accepting less than I deserve.

I replay conversations in my head, searching for where I went wrong.

I revisit old memories, especially the beginning.

The version of them who listened.

The version of us that felt light.

The version of me who didn’t doubt herself so much.

Back then, love felt easy.

Back then, I didn’t feel like I had to prove my value.

Back then, I wasn’t constantly wondering if I was asking for too much by wanting to feel secure.

Love has a way of convincing you that patience will fix what effort refuses to.

It whispers that if you just hold on a little longer, things will change.

That if you love harder, understand more, forgive quicker, it will all make sense eventually.

I stay because I remember who they were at the beginning.

I stay because hope is a dangerous thing.

I stay because part of me believes that if I love harder, things will change.

I tell myself to be strong.

To be understanding.

To be forgiving.

I tell myself that love requires sacrifice —

but no one tells you how much of yourself you’re allowed to lose in the process.

I don’t recognize myself sometimes.

I’ve grown quieter. More careful.

I think before I speak, afraid my feelings might be inconvenient.

And at night, when everything is quiet and I can’t distract myself anymore, the truth rises to the surface.

I admit to myself—

I’m tired of being strong when all I really want is to rest.

I’m tired of being the only one that tries to understand.

I’m tired of loving in ways that aren’t returned with the same care.

I don’t want to keep shrinking to be loved.

I don’t want to keep convincing myself that this is enough.

I just want to feel loved.