People ask me all the time, "Don't you want someone?"

Whenever they do, I just smile. It's that quiet, tired kind of smile that never quite reaches my eyes.

Because the truth is, of course I do. God knows I do. I want love so deeply it actually aches in my bones. I want the kind of connection that sits warm in your chest and makes the heavy days feel lighter.

But I don't want just anyone. Not anymore.

I don't want someone new coming close, trying to learn my favorite color, memorizing my food order, or trying to decode the way I go completely silent when I'm hurting. I don't want someone studying me like a blank page, entirely unaware that my story was already written once — with you.

I don't crave random warmth or fleeting touches that mean absolutely nothing the next morning. I don't want hands that don't recognize the map of mine. I don't want eyes that don't carry our shared history.

I only want you.

You, with your imperfect laugh. You, with the way you used to say my name differently when you were feeling soft. You, who always knew exactly when I was just pretending to be strong.

You are the only one who lives in my thoughts without even trying. The only one who suddenly appears in my mind in the middle of crowded rooms when I least expect it. The only one I subconsciously search for in every passing face on the street. The only one who still visits my dreams as if you never actually left.

I tell people I want love, but really, I just want your love.

The way you intuitively understood my silence. The way you held my chaos without ever judging it. The way you made completely ordinary, mundane days feel like something sacred. No one else fits into that space. No one else feels right.

Well-meaning friends always tell me, "You'll find someone better."

But how do you explain to them that love isn't a competition? It's not about finding someone better. It's about belonging. And I belonged with you.

I push others away, but not because I'm afraid of love. I'm not scared of opening my heart — I've done that before. I gave it everything I had. I push them away simply because they are not you.

Because when they speak, I still hear the echo of your voice in my head. When they smile, I instantly compare it to yours without even meaning to. When they try to hold my hand, my body vividly remembers how yours felt instead.

It's cruel, maybe. But it's honest.

And if it can't be you, I would genuinely rather sit alone with the echo of your name than force myself to build something with someone else that only feels half-alive. I would rather carry this ache than betray the depth of what I felt for you.

It's not that I don't want to be close to someone. It's not that I don't long for companionship, for late-night talks, or for shared laughter. It's that my heart still beats in the exact rhythm it learned with you. It still waits in ways I refuse to admit out loud. It still believes — foolishly, stubbornly — that some connections don't just dissolve because circumstances change.

I miss you in ways I can't explain to anyone else. In small, invisible ways. In the way I instinctively reach for my phone to text you. In the way I wish you were the very first person to hear about my day. In the way the silence of my apartment just feels heavier now.

Sometimes I pretend I'm moving on. Sometimes I even manage to convince myself I'm okay.

But the quiet truth is this: I don't want someone.

I want you. Always you.

Let's talk about it…

Dating and "moving on" can feel like an impossible, exhausting task when your heart is still anchored to a past love. Society pushes us to constantly seek out someone new to fill the void, but it rarely acknowledges how utterly draining it is to explain your scars to a stranger when all you really want is the person who helped heal them the first time.

Have you ever found yourself paralyzed by the thought of starting over? Do you agree that love is about belonging rather than finding someone better?

I'd love to hear your honest thoughts and experiences in the comments. Let's talk about the exhausting reality of trying to move forward.