By Emira Sadat
For as long as I can remember, love has felt just out of reach, always close enough to want but far enough to never hold it fully. I didn’t grow up believing love was something you were given. I learned that it was something you earned. Something that belonged to people who were better in visible ways.
And so began the chase.
Denial: “If I try harder, I’ll be chosen”
Denial convinced me that effort could fix everything. If I tried harder, became more likeable, more impressive, more useful, maybe love would eventually land where I stood.
With my parents, I convinced myself that being loud and funny was enough. I wasn’t gifted in academics, sports, or music—I was the black sheep, the one without achievements worth announcing. So, I became the comedic relief. I filled the room with noise and laughter, telling myself that being entertaining was still valuable.
With my siblings, denial looked like adaptation. I liked what they liked. I became versions of myself that could exist comfortably in their worlds. I told myself this was a connection and not an elimination.
With friends, I believed love lived in reliability. I paid, planned, remembered, and prepared. I walked at the back of the group so no one would be forgotten, because I knew that feeling too well. I mistook being needed for being loved and told myself that was enough.
With crushes and later love potentials, denial took its most exhausting form. I believed potential mattered more than presence. If I showed them how much I could give, how much I could become, they would eventually choose me.
I thought love was a matter of persistence.
Anger: “Why is it never me?”
Eventually, denial cracks.
Anger arrived quietly, then all at once. Why was I always the backup? The almost? The one waiting at home for replies that never came. There was always someone better. Prettier. Smarter. Richer. More effortless. No matter how much I bent myself to fit, I was never the one they gravitated toward.
I grew angry at myself for trying so hard. Angry at the world for rewarding ease over effort. Angry at love for feeling like a game rigged against people like me. The people who were too loud, too needy, too much.
I remembered being told to quiet down. Being half-listened to. Being looked at without being seen.
Because eyes lie.
Despite what the movies say, they lie all the time.
Bargaining: “Maybe if I change one more time”
Bargaining is the most dangerous stage because it feels productive.
Maybe if I soften myself.
Maybe if I ask for less.
Maybe if I become quieter, cooler, and easier to love.
I learned this lesson the hardest way.
He would look at me, and I mean really look at me. Even while driving. Long enough to make me believe something was there. Behind those eyes, you would think he wanted me. I tried to decode his smiles, his glances, the way he’d text that he missed me at night. I convinced myself that maybe if I waited a little longer, if I didn’t ask for clarity, if I didn’t rock the boat, he would choose me,
I bent over backwards for someone who never bent at all. I waited. I hoped. I rewrote myself endlessly. I believed that if I proved my worth, love would meet me halfway.
I didn’t just bargain with silence. I bargained in poems I never sent, in glances I hoped would speak louder than words. I tried to root for him, to stay hopeful, to bend in every way, but the fear of being left alone never went away.
It never did.
Here is the truth I learned too late:
If someone doesn’t look for you when they enter a room, they ar‘e already telling you everything you need to know.
Depression: “Maybe I was never meant for this”
The exhaustion eventually settled into something heavier.
I would memorise small things, like the way he would roll his eyes while exaggerating something, that little crinkle around the eyes, knowing I would always listen to his rants; but when I needed comfort, he would just stare. Detached. Ready to leave. Like I was asking for something that he never signed up for.
I blamed myself. For overthinking. For hoping. For wanted to be held when I was hurting. I began to believe the labels I’d been given: too needy, too loud, too dramatic, too delusional. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for the kind of love I wanted. Maybe wanting to be chosen was the problem.
I mourned the version of myself who believed love would come easily one day. I grieved the years spent waiting, reshaping, and hoping. I sat with the realisation that potential doesn’t matter if no one stays long enough to see it.
This wasn’t heartbreak over one person.
It was grief for a pattern.
Acceptance: “Maybe not being chosen is its own kind of peace”
Acceptance didn’t arrive as empowerment. It arrived quietly.
I realised that not being looked for meant I could leave without guilt. That not being chosen meant I could finally stop waiting. That maybe never being chosen would hurt less than constantly hoping to be.
Maybe letting go of the chase is rest.
Maybe stepping away from love that only enjoys me but never chooses me is self-preservation.
I’m learning to accept that I may never be the obvious choice, the first pick, the easy love, and maybe that’s okay.
Maybe life can still be full, soft, and meaningful in other ways.
As I approach 22, I don’t wish for grand romance anymore.
I wish for peace. I wish for a life where I don’t have to shrink, perform, or beg to be heard.
I hope the day I learned peace will be beautiful, and not because someone finally chooses me, but because I choose to stop chasing what keeps running away.
And maybe, for the first time,
that will be enough.
