I grew up believing,
love always arrived with certainty,
That two people would meet,
and somehow know,
I learned love from books,
from pages that promised forever,
with clean beginnings,
and meaningful endings,
Love was patient,
Love was chosen,
Love stayed,
In those stories,
hearts were never confused for long,
People fought for each other,
with clarity,
with courage,
with intention,
I wanted that kind of love,
Not because it was perfect,
but because it felt deliberate,
But life introduced me
to the other kind,
The kind that hesitates,
The kind that speaks warmly,
and leaves quietly,
The kind that starts with promise,
and ends without explanation,
I learned that affection,
does not always mean commitment,
That effort can be uneven,
That people can hold your hand today,
and loosen their grip tomorrow,
Each time I tried to love,
I felt the sharp reminder,
that fairytales live comfortably in books,
but struggle to survive in reality,
Still, I did not stop hoping,
Not loudly,
Not foolishly,
Just quietly,
like someone protecting a fragile thing,
Because even now,
after disappointment,
after unmet expectations,
after learning how love can change its mind,
A part of me still believes
that one day,
someone will love me,
with the intention I once read about,
Not perfectly,
Just honestly,
And maybe that is the real fairytale,
not a love without pain,
but a love that chooses to stay,
even after knowing,
how easily it could leave.
