ever since I was a kid, I’ve clung to this idea that love was always written in the stars, that at some point or another fate would step in & the right song would play, & whoever I was meant to be with would show up at exactly the right time & place (even if everything was going all wrong.)

but at 21, I find myself struggling with how fair it is to myself to keep believing in something like this. this fairytale idea of “meant to be” makes me feel like I’m always teetering on the edge of disappointment — either because the pain of past relationships has forced me to manipulate it into some type of coping mechanism I can’t afford to live without or quite simply, because my fear that this hope — this concept that this has already been decided for me by a greater power in the chaos that is this life — would be just too hard to lose.

time & time again I’ve found myself surrounded by people who just don’t believe in love, point blank. no frills, no games — & still, I find myself wondering if I’m naive or they’re just pessimists. but are either of us really “wrong”?

is it our own heartache that pushes us in two totally different directions, or is it the pain we watched someone else endure at the hands of someone they gave everything to? both? neither?

the answer is never an easy one, nor is it black & white. but the fact of the matter is this — we’re built by our surroundings, our experiences, our fears, & our hopes. & despite what we cling to (or don’t), this notion of what exists & what doesn’t, there is always an endgame — a story in which we are the protagonists.

& it’s true that I might not ever know how my life will play out, & however misguided the way I’ve approached things may be, I do find solace in what comes next — even in the face of uncertainty.

maybe in a year I’ll be making coffee in a giant shirt I stole from my significant other, waiting for them to wake up on a peaceful Sunday morning. maybe in two I’ll still be single, climbing the ranks in my career. maybe in five I’ll be married & have kids that are just as beautiful as I sometimes imagine they’ll be.

maybe that’s it — maybe we aren’t supposed to know.

maybe I have to be ok with that.

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