Hopeless romantic 💔

To be loved...

CHAPTER ONE:

Always thought love would find me. Not the dramatic, movie-kind of love, but something quiet, something real. I spent my early high school years convinced that if I just smiled enough, laughed at the right jokes, and maybe dropped hints here and there, someone would notice me—really notice me.

But high school has a funny way of teaching you patience. Or maybe it was just teaching me humility, one heartbreak at a time.

It started in my sophomore year. There was this boy—Ethan. He wasn’t the captain of the football team or the one with the loudest laugh in the hallway. No, he was quiet, thoughtful, and the kind of person who noticed details. One day, I caught him doodling in his notebook, tiny hearts around the edges of a page. My heart… well, it did that stupid, flopping thing it always did when I liked someone.

I tried everything: accidentally brushing against him in the corridor, asking “innocent” questions about homework, even pretending to need help with my locker. Nothing worked. He smiled politely, nodded at me, and went back to his world of quiet notes and doodles.

By the end of that year, I realized that liking someone didn’t automatically mean they’d like you back. It was a bitter pill, but one I swallowed anyway, even though it left a dull ache in my chest every time I passed him in the hallway.

The next year, I convinced myself I’d be smarter. I joined clubs, hung out with more people, even tried talking to someone new every week. There was something intoxicating about the chase—the tiny thrill when a boy laughed at my jokes or remembered my favorite book. But every time I felt close to someone, it slipped through my fingers. Either they liked someone else, or I misread the signals, or the timing was off.

I remember one particularly crushing day in junior year. His name was Lucas. He had the kind of smile that made your stomach flip and your chest feel like it was trying to climb out of your ribs. We sat together in history class, shared notes, and laughed at jokes only we found funny. I convinced myself—no, prayed—that he liked me.

At the end of the semester, he asked me out. My heart soared, and then… the ground fell from beneath me. He said he wanted to “see other people” and that he wasn’t ready for anything serious. I nodded, smiled, and pretended to be okay, but that night, I cried until my pillow was soaked.

It wasn’t just him. There were a few others, fleeting sparks that flared up and died out before they even had a chance to light the night sky. I began to wonder if I was doing something wrong. Was I too emotional? Too quiet? Too much of myself? Or maybe… maybe love just wasn’t meant for me yet.

But I couldn’t stop searching. High school was like a playground of possibilities, and I wanted to explore them all—even if it hurt.

By senior year, I realized something important: maybe I didn’t need someone to complete me. Maybe I just needed someone who would see me—the real me, messy thoughts and overthinking included—and love that version of me.

I didn’t find that person in high school. Not fully. But I found glimpses of it in smiles, in little moments of connection. And it was enough to keep me hopeful as I packed my bags and prepared for college—the place I believed would finally bring me the love I’d been searching for

Chapter Two

College was supposed to be freedom. Supposed to be discovery. Supposed to be all the things I dreamed of in high school but never got. And in a lot of ways, it was. I had friends who made me laugh until my cheeks hurt, professors who inspired me, and late-night walks across campus that made me feel alive. But love… love remained slippery, elusive, and often painful.

Jason drifted in and out of my life like a summer breeze. Sometimes warm, comforting, almost perfect. Other times, cold and distant, leaving me wondering if I was chasing a ghost. By sophomore year, I realized that maybe I was holding on too tightly—not to him, but to the idea of him. I craved someone who would see me for me, not just the smile I wore when I wanted to be liked.

It was in that same year that I met Alex. He was completely different from anyone I’d ever known. Loud, impulsive, a little reckless, with a grin that could make a room light up. We met at a campus poetry reading—I was scribbling lines in my notebook, trying not to be noticed, and he leaned over and whispered, “Those are good. I like how honest they feel.”

I felt my heart skip. Flattery usually made me blush, but there was something raw in the way he spoke, something real that I hadn’t felt with anyone else. We started talking after that, coffee dates turning into long walks, walks turning into late-night study sessions. Alex was everything I didn’t know I wanted—bold, unapologetic, funny, but also capable of quiet moments where it was just the two of us.

For a while, I thought maybe, finally, I’d found it. I let myself hope. I let myself dream. I even imagined what it would be like to introduce him to my family, to be the kind of girl who loved fully and unashamedly. But college, as always, had other plans.

One rainy Thursday, Alex and I were sitting under the awning outside the library. The storm was loud, rain lashing against the glass walls. He looked at me, and I could see something flicker in his eyes—hesitation, uncertainty, fear.

“I can’t do this right now,” he said quietly. “I… I like you, I really do. But I’m not ready for anything serious. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

The words hit me like a lightning bolt. I wanted to scream, to cry, to tell him I didn’t care about timing or fears, that all I wanted was us. But I didn’t. I nodded, forced a smile, and let him walk away.

That night, I sat on my dorm bed, hugging my knees, trying to make sense of the ache in my chest. Two years of college, and I still hadn’t found what I was looking for. I wondered if maybe it was me—too much, too emotional, too overthinking, too… human.

But I couldn’t give up. I refused.

Senior year brought its own set of complications. By then, I’d learned a few hard truths: love wasn’t just about butterflies or the thrill of being noticed. It was messy. It was complicated. Sometimes it hurt, and sometimes it taught you things you didn’t want to learn but needed anyway.

I met Ryan that year. Not the Ryan from my sophomore experiments—this was Ryan Matthews, a biology major with a quick smile and an easy laugh. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t sweep people off their feet. But he listened. Really listened. When I talked about my dreams, my fears, my ridiculous overthinking about life and love, he didn’t judge. He just nodded, sometimes laughed, and sometimes stayed silent in all the right ways.

We started spending more time together, first as friends, then as something more. For the first time, I felt like I could breathe around someone. Like maybe this—this slow, gentle connection—was what I’d been searching for all along.

But even with Ryan, nothing was perfect. My overthinking came back, stronger than ever. Every delayed text, every vague message, every small misunderstanding would set off alarms in my head. I had to remind myself constantly that love didn’t have to be dramatic to be real. That patience, kindness, and trust were just as important as sparks and passion.

By the time graduation approached, I felt… changed. Not just because of classes or exams, or the late-night cafeteria runs, or the friendships that had become family. I felt changed because I’d learned to love in pieces—tentatively, fearfully, but sincerely. I’d learned that heartbreak didn’t have to define me. That searching for love didn’t make me desperate; it made me hopeful. And most importantly, I’d learned that the right person would love me not in spite of my quirks and overthinking, but because of them.

On the night of our senior party, as the campus shimmered with lights and laughter, I found Ryan standing by the fountain, a nervous smile on his face.

“I know this sounds cliché,” he said, reaching for my hand, “but I want to be with you. Not just tonight, not just in college, but… whatever comes next. If you’ll let me.”

I looked at him, the boy who had been patient, kind, and steady, and something in me finally relaxed. No overthinking. No doubts. Just a quiet certainty that maybe, finally, my search had brought me somewhere real.

I smiled, squeezed his hand, and whispered, “Yes. Let’s figure out the rest together.”

And for the first time in years, I felt whole.