falling in love, is something other people do #

falling in love is something that happens to other people—
like catching santa stuffing gifts under your tree,
like waking up to a youtuber with a car and a camera crew,
or tripping over your shoelace
only to land perfectly into someone else’s life.
absurd things.
things that feel more like bad writing
than real life.

I’ve read stories—
people meeting soulmates in cafes,
their hands grazing over coffee-stained notebooks
as if fate itself had been waiting in line for a latte.
people hooking up in bars,
spilling whiskey-soaked laughter
into something they dare call love.
or strangers caught in the rain,
soaked through their skin,
smiling like their lives
had just rewritten themselves.

I mean, who actually lives like that?
I don’t think I’ve ever seen it—
not in the real world, anyway.
but maybe that’s just me talking,
the me who’s never felt the weight
of someone else’s heartbeat against mine,
the me who’s grown used to
the hollow echo in my chest.
romantic, right?

and it’s not like I haven’t tried.
I’ve touched people, sure—
hands brushing accidentally,
words spilling into conversations
that feel too big for their moment.
but it never sticks.
it’s like trying to hold water in a sieve,
like the closer I get,
the more it slips away.

falling in love is something
that happens to other people—
people who write letters
and leave them in books for strangers,
people who dance alone in their kitchens
until someone notices.
it’s a language I’ve never learned,
a song I’ve never heard,
a city I’ve only dreamed about visiting.

but maybe that’s just who I am.
a spectator, a passenger,
someone standing on the edge of the story,
watching the pages turn without me.
or maybe I just tell myself that,
when the nights stretch too long
and the silence
becomes a little too loud.
I don’t know
maybe I won’t ever