It'll pass
When love is not enough
We met in South London and walked to my favourite Persian restaurant. Whenever we meet, I have to peel my eyes away from your neck—I never thought I could be attracted to someone's neck. You have a birthmark that looks like a hickey, it's barely visible, but it's beautiful, whenever I see you, I get fixated on it.
You were excited to give me my birthday gift. I was excited to see what it was because in the 9 months that we were together, you never bought me a gift. This is one year after our separation. One year later, we are trying to be friends, or something as respectable as friends and not each other's ex-situationships.
Whenever I have met you after the separation, I have always had a gift with me—a pin badge from a gift shop, a chocolate, a painting, whatever reminds me of you, I get it. I like seeing you happy, I like being the reason for your happiness.
Before I open the gift, I say I want to guess! I was hoping for the gift to be underwhelming, something stupid, because if it was something ME, something that makes me feel seen, then maybe I would have wanted to kiss you. Maybe I was looking for an excuse to kiss you, to give in against all logic once again and enjoy the surrender, the self-destruction.
"Is it a bookmark? A pin badge? Stamps?"
You say it's something to wear. So I start from my head:
"Surely it's not a headband, not a hair tie, can't be earrings right? RIGHT??"
I see the shock on your face as you remember I don't have piercings.
"But you knew I don't wear earrings! I haven't worn them since I was 17! I don't have any holes in my ears!"
I say disappointedly, trying my best not to look ungrateful.
I open the packet and it's a hot pink flower pair.
"This is not even my colour!"
"It looked like maroon in the dark! I shopped at night! Maroon is your colour, right? Sorry, I should apologise thousands of times. This is not the real gift; I bought this in a rush."
I couldn't help myself, "See, this shows it was always me who loved and noticed more!"
I hope this statement stung you. You looked sad already, but I was heartbroken. It was your turn to open your gift—it wasn't your birthday gift, just a this-made-me-think-about-you gift. It was a small bouquet of roses I made after dead-heading them all day and saving the fresh ones.
but we don’t talk enough about the ache of being unknown. not just loneliness, but the kind that makes you question if you were ever really seen at all. the ache of building a private museum of love, full of offerings no one ever notices. i changed this for you. i remembered this, even when you forgot. and they never ask. never look close enough to see it. so your love starts living underground. like an extra heartbeat. like a bruise only you can feel.
‘the intimacy of "how did you know that" by
I gathered the courage to talk about my dating life, to talk about the guy who was my date at my birthday party, the guy you met. I wanted to throw up; it felt like my food came up to my throat. I never want to discuss my dating life with you again. Because there shouldn't be someone else to talk about. It should be us, on a date, not on whatever this is.
My day was already going badly because of visa and immigration issues, then this gift ruined it even more, and finally, when the food arrived, it was SO BAD. My favorite restaurant had to make a horrible, horrible dish THAT very day. I was almost in tears:
"I can't believe how bad this day is going. Could it get any worse?"
But the one thing that's always been consistent with you is comfort. We got through the bad gift, bad food, with good jokes and reassurances. Even with the thoughtless gift, which you probably bought because my friends gave me a red stone necklace so you copied that idea—you also tried to copy my birthday gift to you, which was a theatre show ticket to a play you loved a lot, and you tried to buy me a theatre ticket and I had said no, come up with something original, and you still couldn't. Even after all this, I still kept defending you in my head.
I thought of getting my ears pierced again to wear these ugly earrings. These god-awful, tacky earrings. But that's what I always used to do around you—I used to make myself convenient, small, manageable, someone who would get happy easily.
While walking towards the train station, you asked me if we ever had a fight or even an argument when we were together. I said no, we always sorted conflicts immediately.
"But we should have fought! It's good!"
You disagreed and said what's the point in fighting.
"Isn't this a sign that maybe we never tested if we were emotionally compatible or not? Because we never fought! You were so scared of talking about your feelings that it never came up. I never had the courage to talk about that with you. Isn't it a sign that we were incompatible?"
You disagreed again. I said I wanted to have a fight, and you said playfully, "You can fight me whenever you want to!"
As we enter the tube station, I ask, "So are your feelings for me fully gone? Disappeared?"
"No, there's still care and affection, always will be."
"So how do you see me now?"
"I feel differently about you, different from how you feel about me. I think of you as more than a friend but less than a lover. I have never felt any discomfort around you."
"Me either."
I don't think you ever left my mind. You took a seat in the corner, and sometimes you take centre stage when I am chopping garlic, when I find a new recipe you would have liked, when my shoelaces come undone while running, because you would have bent down to tie them.
As we get on the escalator, you finally notice my dress properly and say:
"I keep forgetting how hot you are."
"You forget?? That's hurtful!"
I had to ask, "Do you still, or did you use to masturbate thinking about me?"
"Yes, of course, I am not harming anyone! And the fact that you're asking proves that you do too!"
I burst out laughing as I couldn't defend myself here.
While we wait for the train, with a beautiful purple sunset in front of us, I open up to you, "I want my life to be my own."
"You mean you want to be single?"
"Umm maybe, but what I mean is, I know so many women who are stuck in relationships, in families, workplaces, where they don't want to be. So many women who think loving someone and abandoning themselves, their life might bring fulfillment. I don't want that. I don't want anyone, not even my parents, to ever tell me what I can or cannot do. I would like to share my life but never let someone else control it, monetarily, emotionally, in any way."
I ask you if you ever hated me or got angry with me.
"Why would I get angry? I never had any expectations from you. If I did and they weren't met, then maybe I would."
"For leaving you on your birthday?"
"I don't give any importance to my birthdays, and I have told you I deserved it for doing it to someone else years ago."
The day I left was when it finally hit me that I had completely changed myself for you. I asked you for commitment and you said no. In the months that followed, I kept thinking, when did it happen? When did I lose myself? Made myself digestible, for whom and for what? What did I betray myself for? TO BE CHOSEN? WHAT IS THIS DESPERATION?
My brain repeats the same affirmations: If I say the right things all the time, I’ll be chosen. Being ignored is something I can outsmart. If I’m perfect enough, I’ll be impossible to leave.
‘You can’t say the wrong thing to the right person’ by
I also left because I didn't want you to change, for me, for anyone. I would rather remember us being immensely happy together rather than force you to stay.
"I was extremely upset."
"Me too, I cried a lot."
"Me too! This one time, I screamed with my full chest because I felt a burning pain in my chest, here."
I pointed to the exact place. You spread your arms for a hug, apologising. I hugged tightly, saying, "It's not your fault, it's none of our fault."
I have missed this. I miss being on the same page. I miss this familiarity. I miss you. Your name has never been uttered without love; whenever I think of it, I feel the rush of familiarity, the love that I grieve every day. Sometimes I say your name just to feel the love.
real love lives there. not in the declarations. but in the daily archaeology of someone’s soul. in the small things that whisper, i see you. i learn you. you matter enough to remember.
‘the intimacy of "how did you know that" by
"The night we went to see Romeo and Juliet play and had Turkish food was the best date of my life."
"We ate after the play?"
"Yes!"
We keep staring at the sunset quietly. Silence was never awkward with you, there was always space to think, to grow.
Emotions kept pouring out of me. I wanted to confess everything, "But I am so grateful to you for not choosing me! Thank god! Thanks for saying no. I realised that I didn't really want commitment; I just wanted openness from you. And it's sad how I have reached here, how many times I have been broken to reach this stage. But I am so madly, deeply in love with myself!"
"That's great because 2 years ago, when I first met you, you were already so much in love with yourself."
Yeah, and you sucked all that out of me without realising.
I remember it so clearly—August 2023, I was so happy with my life. All I used to do was study and hang out with my best friend. We used to take dance breaks, afternoon coffees under the sun, watch sunsets with a cinnamon bun. I remember when I met you, I talked for hours, and you listened intently. You even stayed at my student accommodation till midnight because I kept talking. I kept thinking: you're younger than me, so a hard pass; you're only in the mood for a casual relationship, which is fine, but I don't want to deal with it; you're from my culture, so there’s familiarity, but you also remind me why I left my country in the first place.
But when you hugged me goodnight that day, it felt like home. You felt like home, and I said "ah fuck it" and leaned in to kiss you, against all logic, and it was the most passionate kiss of my life.
Now couple of years later, we are sitting on this train, tracing our steps back. You tell me, "My friends told me that I am stupid, that I fucked up."
I agree enthusiastically, "You are stupid!"
You said, “I was very happy with you. I should have talked about my feelings in time but I didn't know things would end suddenly. Then all the feelings came over me later on."
"I had to gather so much courage to even say the most basic things, because you were so scared of talking about your feelings. You once told me, 'I really respect you as an artist, Osheen, this is me opening up,' and I thought, God! If this is him opening up, it'll take him 4 lifetimes to even say 'I like you.'"
"I was going through a very difficult phase. A lot was happening."
"I know, I understand."
"We can say it now. You can say it in the past tense if you don't feel the same way anymore." It’s too late, I know, but I did want to hear it. I wanted to know that all this time, I wasn’t delusional.
"I do feel the same way."
"So say it."
I kept looking at you, intently. I never told you, but I had fantasised about this moment for the last whole year. I have wished one day you would just say it, you would open up to me, we would kiss passionately, get into bed and it would be happily ever after. I miss holding hands. I miss getting kissed all over my face before sleeping. I miss us cooking together and dancing in the kitchen. I think I'll keep wondering what it would feel like to kiss you again, to be in your embrace again. I still think about you against my will, against all logic, but I would rather shoot myself than be vulnerable with you.
Now you're on the train beside me; my station is 2 stops away. You think of something and say:
"Hmm."
"What?"
"Oh I just said it in my head and agreed."
"Come on dude!"
"I like you, Osheen."
I swear I had never rolled my eyes harder.
"Not like! I know you like me, I want to hear the BIG L!"
"Yes I love you, Osheen."
It didn't give me shockwaves or butterflies, just a very beautiful calm feeling. It felt like the most natural thing to hear. As if you had said it before. You had never uttered these words, but you had conveyed in your actions thousands of times. You had held me closely, kissed my forehead when I had confided in you about my sexual assault. You rushed to a store at night to get tampons for me when I was coming back home in tears because of my cramps. I used to pull 12/13-hour shifts at a restaurant and come back to hot food and body massages. You were always there.
Once we were at Granary Square, and the moment I saw you, I asked you, "What's wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"What are you stressed about?"
"You can tell?"
"Obviously!"
I'll always remember this day, the day where we barely spoke because we didn't need to. We sat quietly, embracing the closeness and intimacy of knowing each other.
I was holding your hand, looking for a birthmark, and you quietly gave me your left hand, saying:
"It's on this one."
You always used to notice. We had reached a stage where we didn't have to use words to understand each other anymore.
And maybe that was the mistake. Reading too much into your warmth. Thinking the way you looked at me meant something. Every message felt like a small invitation. Every laugh we shared felt like closeness. When you said I was funny, I heard affection. When you said you wanted to see me, I heard longing. I filled in the blanks with everything I wanted to be true.
We were never in a committed relationship, but you were my rock, without ever asking. You used to wake up in between your sleep to kiss me and pass out again. You never said "I love you" before, but you did, every single moment we were together. Maybe I was too insecure to call it love, because you were scared. Maybe we were both scared of the intensity of our feelings.
Now it was my turn, "How badly do you want me to say it?"
"I am not dying for it, but it would be nice if you said it too."
"I love you too."
You tapped on my shoulder to console me. I asked, "What is this??" to which you said, "It'll pass."
This made me laugh with intense sadness, "Fuck you, I'll hit you with my shoe!”
"No. It won't pass, it clearly hasn't, it'll always stay."
I could feel my cheeks burning and couldn’t stop smiling. Oh, this is such a weird day.
"Aww, thank you so much for saying it!" I kiss your cheek.
"Thank you for giving me the opportunity to say it."
And you kissed my cheek and said, "This is a slippery slope."
I was so flustered.
I hug you tightly and while saying, "Bye, love you"
"Love you."
I slept with a smile, woke up with a smile. Kept replaying the moment in my head again and again. I always wanted this; I prayed whenever I saw 11:11, please bring him back, please make him emotionally available. I wanted it to be you so badly. I wish it was you.
And now that it finally happened, I don't know if I want it.
If you ask me, I would happily spend years trying to understand you, to learn how to love you better, how to be there for you. I would go through all the pain and awkwardness patiently, but would you do the same for me? I have a lot of love in me; the more I love, the more it expands. For you, love is like spending—the more you do it, you'll run out.
Sometimes it's good to arrive late, when the party is over, to see what's left behind and realise it wasn't your thing.
What I had been wishing for was naive, because you love me as a feeling, and I love you as a choice.
And to me that is the truest form of love, not the feeling that precedes the choice, but the choice that dignifies the feeling. Not the chemistry of recognition, but the courage of continuation. Not the passion of possession, but the poetry of presence.
‘Love Is Not Enough’ by
I can't keep waiting forever to feel chosen. To keep teaching someone how to love me, how to be vulnerable, what gifts to give me, how to be good at texting, how to communicate. I love you but it hurts to do so. It feels like an insult to love you. It's like hugging a cactus again and again and wearing bandages that you keep tearing through. I am left with so much longing after every time we meet.
But I don't want to dissect our relationship to the extent where I end up destroying the essence of it, which was joy and comfort and a lot of love. In the end, all that matters is that there was love.
I do realise now that a lot of my expectations come from insecurities. I was too insecure to believe that I was loved or that I was lovable. There's a lot of work I need to do on myself.
real partnership isn’t a battlefield or a waiting room.
it’s not a puzzle to decode or a challenge to overcome.and even after everything, i still believe in love.
not because someone saved me,
but because i’m choosing myself.and next time, it will meet me exactly where i am.
‘i accept the love i think i deserve’ by
Now I long for myself. A version of me who loves me already. I know you aren't there yet, but I won't be waiting anymore. I won't be one of the women you trample on for your development. I love you, but it kills me; I just don't like you anymore. I will always love you, but I hope I don't. I hope it dies soon and calmly. I wish you knew how to love me, but it's okay. I am glad you didn't choose me. It is indeed too late; none of us wants to date again, and the nature of our love has evolved into something that'll take some time to figure out. And I am glad that it's late; it's time to go home. To my beautiful life, I have created without you.
Here, love is not enough because I'll keep wondering what you're thinking about, and you'll never tell me. I'll never be reassured. But I am so lucky, so lucky to have loved enough to feel this pain, so lucky to have cared enough to grieve. So lucky to have loved and lost rather than never getting a chance to.
With you every day was like Valentine's Day; there was not a single second where I was bored, not one bad day. It was perfect, we were perfect. But maybe you came into my life to teach me to choose myself, to let go of everything that makes me doubt myself, hate myself. I am finally letting you go, for real this time. I'll always love you, but I want to be loved properly or not at all.
Confused how you pulled an entire essay out of my brain, and did so in the most beautiful, eloquent way!
Oh no I’m actually sobbing