Why has love always felt like the answer for everything?

I think I've always been a little bit obsessed with love. I like to blame Bollywood for it.

Not even in a cute way. In a slightly concerning, this-feels-too-important kind of way.

Like no matter what is going wrong in my life, my brain somehow circles back to the same conclusion — maybe I just need to be loved properly.

And I hate that thought. I hate how convincing it is.

Because logically, I know I have so much love around me. My friends adore me. My family loves me. Well, most of the time.

People show up for me, care for me, check on me. I feel it when someone sends me a "reached home?" text without me asking. When my friend remembers something small I said weeks ago and brings it up like it mattered. When someone sits with me while I'm crying and then laugh with me 10 minutes later when I'm back to joking about how big the feelings are.

I feel it when my mum knocks on my door wanting a hug.

When someone specially orders my favourite cheesecake for my birthday.

When my friends let me spiral about the same person for the fifth day in a row and still say, "no it makes sense."

There is so much love in my life.

And I do feel it.

But it's like there's a very specific kind of love my brain has decided is the final answer to everything. And nothing else quite replaces it.

I can have a full life. Plans for the day. People to meet. A phone full of messages. Moments where I'm genuinely okay — like laughing so hard I forget everything for a second.

And still, somewhere in between all of that, there's this quiet feeling underneath everything —

okay, but what about that kind of love?

The kind where someone chooses you without hesitation. Doesn't make you guess. Doesn't make you feel like you're too much one day and not enough the next.

The kind where you don't have to analyse tone or timing or pauses between words. Where you don't feel your stomach drop when their name pops up on your phone.

Some days I can intellectualize it. Tell myself it's attachment patterns, conditioning, childhood wounds, things I can fix.

And other days it just feels like —

what if it never happens to me?

Like what if I keep almost getting there, almost being liked enough, almost being understood — but never fully?

And that thought is so dramatic, but also so real in the moment.

It scares me how often I cry about it. How often I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations, wondering what I did wrong. How quickly butterflies turned into anxiety over the past few years — like excitement got replaced with this constant low-level dread.

Because I don't even think I want something unrealistic.

I don't need grand gestures or movie-level love.

I just want consistency. Clarity. To not feel confused all the time. To wake up every morning and hear the stillness in their breath.

To not feel like I have to earn softness.

And somewhere along the way, that stopped feeling like something I wanted and started feeling like something I need to feel okay.

Which is… not great.

Because now love isn't just love — it's relief.

It's the difference between my calm mind and a spiralling one. It's the thing I imagine will finally make me feel settled in myself.

It's proof that I exist in a way that matters.

And when you attach that much meaning to it, of course it starts to feel like the answer to everything.

Like if that one thing falls into place, I'll stop overthinking. I'll stop questioning myself. I'll finally relax.

And I know that's not entirely true.

But I also know I can't stop wanting it.

Which is the most annoying part.

I don't know what to do about it.

I think I'm trying to separate it now — like maybe love can be something beautiful in my life without being the thing that decides whether or not I'm okay.

Maybe I can have days that feel complete without that quiet "something is missing" feeling sitting in the background.

Maybe I can learn how to sit with myself without waiting for someone else to make it feel easier.

But I won't lie…

A part of me still believes that if I was loved the way I want to be loved —

in a way that is steady, obvious, and doesn't make me question my place —

something in me would finally just… rest.