“I Didn’t Believe in Love Until It Found Me Anyway”

I used to believe love was an illusion. Not because I was cold or unfeeling but because I had seen the worst of it. In my extended family, I witnessed divorce, abuse, and emotional scars that never fully healed. As a child, I quietly made a vow: I won’t fall for it. I won’t give love the chance to hurt me. And I kept that vow for years. That changed earlier this year.

It started, of all places, on Instagram. He was just a friend at first, someone I chatted with casually. Back then, he was interested in someone else, and I was the one giving him advice, even helping him try to impress her. Funny how life works. That didn’t go anywhere, and he turned his focus toward work. Our chats continued. Friendly. Supportive. Familiar.

Then he moved to my city for a job from North to South. We met a few times. Nothing romantic. Nothing intentional. Just… connection. A soft closeness that built itself without making noise. When he moved back to his hometown, I felt something strange: a heaviness in my chest. It wasn’t just sadness. It was loss. I realized I had let my guard down. I had let someone in. When I tried to reach him, he was busy with family during the New Year. No replies. No missed calls returned. I spiraled, my overthinking mind filled in all the blanks with fear, questions, and worst-case scenarios.

Eventually, we reconnected. He chatted like nothing happened. He knew. I knew. But I wasn’t ready to admit it, not even to myself. But I did. I told him. And still… I don’t believe in love. Or marriage. Not in the traditional sense. Not in the fairy tale sense. But maybe now, I believe in moments. In connections. In the strange, quiet magic of letting someone see the version of you that doesn’t pretend.

Love didn’t ask for permission. It just happened. And I’m still figuring out what that means.