An Autopsy On Love, And Those Who Misread It

Love is the easiest thing to ask for and the hardest thing to understand. I sat with that thought for a while. I sat with the weight of my own longing after years of loneliness, the quiet ache that whispered: I want to be loved. Not abstractly. Not in the grand, poetic sense of the universe looking out for me. But in the raw, tangible way that says, I see you. I choose you. I am here for you. And then came the contradiction that cracked through my chest—Doesn’t everyone want this?

We sit with open hands, waiting. We pour and pour into others, convinced that love, if given freely, will return in kind. We believe it’s owed to us, if not by right, then at least by effort. I give, therefore I should receive. Isn’t that how it works?

But that’s the first lie that people tell to themselves.

We talk about love like it’s a currency, like there’s an invisible balance sheet somewhere in the universe keeping track of who gives and who takes, making sure things even out in the end. But love, in its rawest form, was never built on transactions. It doesn’t adhere to the rules of fairness we invent for it. Some give more. Some take more. And often, those who love hardest are left with the heaviest hands, empty and drained from all they’ve poured.

That’s when the resentment creeps in. I loved you. Why didn’t you love me the same? It’s a quiet devastation, the realization that love does not bind someone to reciprocation. It does not compel them to stay, to try, to give back in equal measure. And the cruelest part? Even when love is returned, it does not always arrive in the shape we hoped for.

Yet, the ones who cry out, I wish someone would love me the way I love, rarely stop to ask themselves—How do I love, really? Because more often than not, they don’t. They want love, but they do not build it. They crave devotion, but they do not commit. They want to be understood, but they do not listen. What they call love is often just longing, a hollow desire to receive what they have never truly given. And yet, they believe they deserve it. That someone should come along and pour into them endlessly, simply because they exist. But love is not something owed. It is not a reward for wanting it badly enough. It is not a handout given to those who sit and wait. Love is a responsibility. A skill. An art. Something built, not stumbled into. And entitlement has no place in it.

But here’s where it turns again—if love is something we build, something we nurture with effort and care, does that mean mutual effort is required? Do we have the right to expect it? Or is expectation itself the poison that ruins it?

Some say love should be given without expectation, without need for return. That to love purely means to love without conditions. But then, what of the lover left in the cold? What of the hands that reach endlessly into the void? Should they never expect warmth in return?

Is it wrong to want to be loved?

No.

Because if love is not a currency, it is also not charity. It is not self-sacrifice for the sake of self-sacrifice. It is not a silent suffering, nor is it martyrdom. Love—true love—should not be a desperate act of proving one’s worth, nor should it be the fate of the unseen, always lingering in the background, waiting to matter.

So, we arrive at the contradiction that knots itself around the very nature of love: To love fully is to give without keeping score, but to love wisely is to recognize when love is not returned, nurtured, or grown with the same care. This is it, the paradox of love. That it is both selfless and self-preserving; it is both an offering and a need.

Thus, maybe love is not something we are given but something we learn. A skill sharpened by understanding, by patience, by pain. An art practiced not by the heart alone, but by the mind that chooses it, again and again.

If love is something we learn, then perhaps the most painful lesson of all is knowing when to stop giving it.

Because love, in its truest form, is not just about persistence. It is not about proving, enduring, or waiting endlessly for someone to notice its weight. Love is not a test of how much suffering one can bear before they are finally seen. And yet, how many of us convince ourselves that being unseen is how things are meant to be? How many of us stay, believing that if we just give a little more, wait a little longer, prove ourselves a little further—then love will finally, finally return?

But love is not meant to be pried from unwilling hands. It is not meant to be begged for, bargained for, or earned through suffering. It is not a war to be won.

And this is where love meets dignity. Where self-respect and devotion stand face to face, and we are forced to ask: Is my love being met? Is it being held with care? Or am I pouring into something that was never meant to hold me?

Because love, real love, does not demand that we abandon ourselves for the sake of keeping it. It does not ask us to stay where we are unseen, unheard, or only half-held.

And so, maybe love is not just something we learn—but something we unlearn, too. The desperate grasping. The endless proving. The quiet, aching endurance.

Because love should never be a place where we lose ourselves just to be wanted.

But sometimes, the absence of effort is not the absence of love. Some people care, support, and even believe they love deeply—but they do not know how to love. Because love is not instinct alone. Like I said, it is an art, a skill, something that demands learning, unlearning, and an openness to growth.

But the tragedy lies here: so many refuse to learn. They believe love is simply what they feel, that their presence alone is enough, that their way of loving needs no refining. They do not see that love is shaped in the doing—in the showing up, in the small, deliberate acts that turn affection into something real.

And so, they love in a way that leaves their loved ones starving. Not because they do not care, but because they have never questioned whether their love is enough. They assume it is. They assume it must be. And when their loved ones ache, when distance grows, they wonder why love was not enough to keep them, why their relationship is drifting apart.

But love—real love—demands more than just meaning well. It demands the willingness to learn how to love in a way that the other person feels it. It demands effort, intention, and the humility to admit: Maybe I don’t know how to love the way I should. But I want to learn.

And maybe, in the end, that’s the difference between love that stays and love that fades: the willingness to learn, to grow, and to hold love as more than just a feeling—but as a choice, a responsibility, a lifelong act of becoming.

P.S. Haven’t posted in a while. The truth is, I’ve spent years keeping myself busy—too busy to think, too busy to feel. I convinced myself that my feelings didn’t matter, that maybe they weren’t even real, because there was always someone who had it worse. So I swallowed it all. Over and over. Until silence became my default. Until I got used to it.

But the August of 2024 caught up with me. When you ignore something for too long, it doesn’t disappear—it just waits. And when it finally hits, it doesn’t just hurt. It shatters. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, unable to focus, unable to share. And I had no idea why.

It took me almost 7 months to look back and understand—why I was feeling this way, why I felt so emotionally drained, why I carried this quiet sense of failure for so long. And now, I’ve decided to stop running from it. To take it one step at a time.

Consider this write-up my first attempt. Just putting it into words feels like I can breathe a little better. I’ll be sharing more in the coming days—until it gets easier. Until it gets better.

Also, many might disagree with the post. This is just a perspective—love is vast, and everyone experiences it differently. Love y'all, please stay emotionally hydrated <3.