Oh, the highs that feel like flying; oh, the lows that feel like drowning;

I’ve been in love. Or at least, I think I have. Love doesn’t come with a manual or a label. It just crashes into your life like a storm, uninvited, and leaves you scrambling to make sense of the wreckage. And when it leaves—when they leave—you’re left picking up the pieces, wondering if it was ever real or just some cruel trick your heart played on you.

I’ve tried to love the way they tell you to love. You know, the way it looks in movies or sounds in songs. The kind of love that’s grand and sweeping and perfect. But my love doesn’t look like that. My love is messy. It’s awkward. It’s showing up with soup when they’re sick, but also forgetting their birthday. It’s saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but meaning it with every fiber of my being. It’s trying, failing, and trying again.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’ve been trying to love the idea of love, instead of loving the person in front of me. Because love isn’t a fairy tale. It’s not a montage of perfect moments set to a soundtrack. It’s the quiet, unglamorous stuff. It’s holding someone’s hair back when they’re throwing up. It’s sitting in silence because words aren’t enough. It’s choosing to stay, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

But here’s the thing: I’m scared. I’m scared of letting someone see me. Not the polished, put-together version of me, but the real me. The me that cries at dog commercials and eats cereal for dinner and has a playlist for every mood. The me that’s still figuring out how to be a person.

I’m scared of being vulnerable. Of opening myself up to the possibility of being hurt. Because love isn’t just about the good stuff. It’s about the bad stuff too. It’s about the fights and the misunderstandings and the moments when you wonder if you’re even right for each other. It’s about looking at someone and thinking, ‘This is hard, but I still choose you.’

And sometimes, it’s not even about choosing. Sometimes, it’s about surviving. About holding on even when you feel like letting go. About loving someone even when they don’t love you back. About loving yourself even when you feel unlovable.

Sometimes, love means letting go. It means looking at someone you once held so close and saying, ‘I love you enough to want your happiness, even if it’s not with me.’ It’s the quiet ache of watching them walk away, not because you don’t care, but because you care too much to chain them to a love that’s no longer theirs to hold.

It’s the hardest kind of love, the kind that asks nothing in return. The kind that says, ‘Go, be happy,’ even as your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. It’s the love that stays soft in the face of rejection, that refuses to turn bitter or cruel. It’s the love that says, ‘I loved you, and I always will, but I won’t let my love become a cage.’

So I’ll let you go. Not because I don’t love you, but because I do. And maybe, in the end, that’s the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing of all.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: love isn’t about finding someone who completes you. It’s about finding someone who sees you. Really sees you. The good, the bad, the messy, the beautiful. And instead of running away, they say, ‘Hey, I see you. And I’m staying.’

So maybe that’s what I’m looking for. Not a fairy tale, but a partner in crime. Someone who’s willing to sit with me in the mess and say, ‘We’ll figure this out together.’

And if I find that person, I’ll hold onto them. Not because they’re perfect, but because they’re real. And because they make me want to be real too.

Until then, I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep opening myself up, even when it’s scary. Even when it hurts. Because I think love is worth it. I think I’m worth it.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.