I met someone I was sure was starved for love, so I poured myself into making up the difference. Later I realized the hungry one was me. The way I loved him was just the way I wished someone would love me

I kept trying to love him “better,” convinced it was never enough—when really I just wanted to be treated with the same care.

I used to hope someone would truly understand me. No one has, so far.

When I felt low, I posted a song on my Instagram story, thinking he’d get how much I was hurting.
He never even saw it—let alone reached out.

First I was mad, then sad, and finally it hit me: I was asking too much. Hearts are locked rooms; even partners who share a home don’t always have the key—let alone a passerby.

Turns out the only person who’s ever been able to read me is me.

People say presence is the longest love letter, but brief company cuts the deepest.

Some people appear out of nowhere, wedge themselves into your life, and upend the quiet you worked hard to build.
They arrive like fireworks, as if they’re here for good.
Then they disappear without a sound—like a summer shower that evaporates before it even darkens the sidewalk.

And you’re the one left hurting.

I know this much: when someone who’s love-deprived finally loves, they love another more than themselves.

I have a friend who’s always gifting books.
Every time he meets someone new, he carefully picks a title he thinks will fit and slips in a long note—his thoughts, his hopes.

Most of those books ended up untouched on shelves.
When he found out, it broke his heart. He even got sick for a while.
No one checked in. The books that got returned piled up by his bed like a little graveyard.

People are wired to be a bit selfish. You can be wonderful to someone and they still might not meet you with the same heart.
You might think you’re a treasure to them, but the whole time they’re wearing a mask.

Most of us are like that, more than we want to admit.

We think we’re giving love, but we’re really asking for it.
We think we’re understanding others, but we’re craving to be understood.
We think we’re keeping someone company, but we’re just afraid of being alone.

These days, I don’t give myself away so easily.
Not because I’ve gone cold—because I’ve learned.

Love isn’t charity, it isn’t a transaction, and it’s not forcing your version of “understanding” on someone else.
Real love starts with sealing your own cracks, not patching everyone else’s.

When you stop grasping outward, the companionship that’s truly yours has a way of finding you.
When you grow solid, life quietly filters out the people who drain you.

I see it now: I was never short on friends. I was short on myself.

As for the ones who come and go—let them.
Life is mostly a solitary road, and the only companion guaranteed to make it to the finish is your own shadow.