I recently realised something about myself – I’m a romantic. A reluctant, closet romantic.
This was apparently quite obvious to many who know me, but I always thought of myself as a realist. I’ve never been swayed by grand gestures or believed in love at first sight or even “happily ever afters”. I’ve taken it too far plenty of times, claiming that to “need” another is to admit defeat.
I do my best to be “cool”, act like I could care less. I even fool myself about sixty percent of the time (a very deliberately calculated figure, I assure you). But in moments of unfiltered self-awareness, I know my – for lack of a better word – weaknesses. I am hopeful, relentlessly, doggedly, even sometimes delusionally hopeful.
I am hopeful that in a world where carefully casual texts and swiping to the next one is the norm, real connections can still be formed. I am hopeful that committing to another person is possible alongside rushing about for our individual goals, respecting boundaries and priorities. I haven’t really figured out how, but I am still hopeful.
For me to be hopeful right now is surprising – I let go off someone who meant a great deal to me and it was excruciating. But I survived it and even when my heart feels like a piece of patchwork art, I know I’ll offer it up again someday. Because that’s who I am. I am brave enough to be vulnerable and resilient enough to take what comes with it, and I grow more so with every breath I take. I’m also a sucker for forehead kisses, flowers for no reason, and of course, food brought/sent over just because. There, I admitted it.
This thing my heart (grudgingly) hopes for, it’ll find me someday. But for now, my little island feels safe. I’ll weather it’s storms as best as I can on my own and soak in its sun like it’s just for me.