The Love I Never Held

The Love I Never Held
My name is Julia, and this is not a story of love found, but of love felt—and never returned. It's a story I don’t often share, because it doesn't have the sweet ending we all wish for. But sometimes, silence grows too loud, and the ache within the heart deserves its moment on the page.

I don’t have my love, and I often wonder why.

It’s not that I haven’t been open to love. I’ve looked for it in cafés, in conversations, in eye contact across train stations. I’ve looked for it in the soft glow of text messages and in the silence between calls. But love has always passed me by, like a familiar stranger who almost remembers my name—but doesn’t stop.

I used to believe in fairytales. That someone out there was made just for me, shaped perfectly to fit the empty spaces in my heart. As a little girl, I imagined meeting him on a rainy day, maybe as he offered his umbrella. We'd laugh, exchange glances, and life would never be the same. But life, as it turns out, is not made of well-timed movie scenes.

I remember the first time I thought I was in love. His name was Daniel. He was kind, with a laugh that could calm storms. We met in university—both of us lost in books, notes, and possibilities. He'd sit with me after classes, talking about everything and nothing. I thought maybe, just maybe, he felt it too. That invisible thread pulling us together.

But one day, he introduced me to her. “This is Claire,” he said, glowing. “My girlfriend.”

I smiled, pretending my heart hadn’t just splintered.

That moment marked the beginning of a pattern. I would meet someone, feel something grow inside me, only to realize I was the only one watering the garden. Over time, I began to doubt the way I loved—was I too much? Too intense? Too quiet? Too available?

People say love finds you when you’re not looking. But what if it finds everyone but you?

I dated, of course. A few short relationships here and there. People who held my hand but not my heart. People who liked the idea of me more than the truth of who I was. Some stayed for the comfort. Others left at the first sign of depth.

I tried to change—tried to be more what I thought men wanted. Smiled more, spoke less. Waited hours to reply to texts, as if pretending not to care would make someone care more. But the truth is, pretending made me feel lonelier than being alone ever did.

Years passed. Friends got engaged. Married. Had children. And I became the “best friend,” the “maid of honor,” the “wise one.” Always close to love, but never quite in it.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s fate or flaw. Is it possible that some of us are meant to live without great love stories? Or am I simply too guarded now—my heart armored with past disappointments?

They say love is a risk. But how many times can you fall off a cliff before your soul refuses to climb again?

I’ve been told I’m beautiful. That I’m kind. That I have an old soul with eyes that understand. And still, love does not stay. It touches the edges of my life and retreats before it can settle.

There was one man, years later, who almost changed the story. His name was Arman. We met by accident at a bookstore—both reaching for the same poetry collection. He smiled and said, “It’s yours,” and I smiled back, handing it to him anyway.

We met for coffee a week later. Then again. And again.

He understood me in ways I didn’t think were possible. He saw the storms behind my calm, the chaos behind my kindness. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t too much—or not enough. I felt seen.

But Arman wasn’t ready. “You’re everything I want,” he said, “just not right now.”

I wanted to scream. Why not now? Why not me?

He left, not with cruelty, but with hesitation. And hesitation is a softer kind of heartbreak—it doesn’t shatter, it erodes. Slowly. Quietly. Daily.

That was two years ago.

Since then, I’ve stopped chasing love. Not because I don’t believe in it, but because I no longer believe it’s promised. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe some of us are meant to love in different ways—in the loyalty we offer, the poetry we write, the silent prayers we send for people who never knew they mattered to us.

I still think of Arman sometimes. Not with bitterness, but with the soft ache of what could’ve been. I wonder if he ever thinks of me when he reads that book of poetry.

I wonder if he ever regrets his “not now.”

I no longer ask, “What’s wrong with me?” Instead, I ask, “What am I learning from this solitude?”

I’ve learned that love is not always found in someone else’s arms. Sometimes, it’s in the way you hold yourself when no one else does. In the dreams you build, the strength you show, the nights you cry quietly and still wake up with hope.

Sometimes, love is unrequited, unspoken, unfinished—and still real.

People like to end stories with happy ever afters. But this isn’t that kind of story. This is a quiet story. A true one.

I don’t have my love—not the romantic kind. Not the one I imagined as a girl with flowers in her hair. But I have love.

I see it in the way my mother looks at me when I surprise her with coffee. I hear it in the late-night calls from friends who need advice, knowing I’ll listen. I feel it in my own heart, when I write letters I’ll never send to people who’ll never know.

And maybe, one day, love will arrive—not dramatically, not with fireworks, but gently, like morning sunlight on a windowsill.

And maybe it won’t.

Either way, I am Julia.

And I am not missing anything.