It feels unfair that some people have discovered what love is so early in their lives. No, not family love—the kind that’s expected. Families are supposed to love you; it’s the bare minimum. They’re the souls you’re placed on earth to be with, and I have that. But I mean the kind of love that has to be built—the kind rooted in a deep connection, where every small detail matters. Whether it’s the way someone’s smile breaks or how their mind wanders over a simple question—anything, really, that makes you think: This is my person.
Some people find that love long before their first paycheck, their college degree, or even their first phone. And the really lucky ones? They find it so early they barely recognize it as luck. It’s a long journey, they say, growing together while growing apart, navigating arguments, misunderstandings, and miscommunications. A long journey before you realize the person beside you is the one you’ll walk with forever.
The lucky ones rarely see themselves as lucky. But I do. They don’t know what they have—or what others lack.
Those of us who are less fortunate find love in other places. In the cracks of bad luck, in corners of ourselves we never expected, or by simply waiting, hoping that life will bring it our way. I’ve been all of those—floating from feeling to feeling, chasing whatever brings comfort in the moment. They say the love within ourselves is the true purpose of life, the one path to real contentment. And maybe they’re right. But even so, loneliness has a way of creeping in, toppling that self-love when you least expect it.
I guess God is fair. No one gets it all. The lucky ones might find love early but lack in other ways, while the rest of us thrive where they stumble. Maybe that’s just how things are meant to be.
