Today started like any other casual conversation. A group of friends, random topics, laughter drifting in and out. One of them spoke about a girl he likes—how her eyes pulled him in. Sharp eyes, innocent eyes. The kind that make you pause mid-sentence. I had seen her too. Barely two days. Not long enough to know her, but long enough to notice something rare—an honesty in the way she looked at the world.
And then today, we saw her again.
She was sitting beside a boy. Sharing food. Laughing softly. Close—not the distant, harmless closeness of colleagues, but something warmer, something familiar. I don’t know why, but the innocence I had noticed earlier felt… absent. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was overthinking. I do that a lot. I know.
But here’s the thing—I’ve wanted to be wrong so many times in my life. Desperately. Yet somehow, I’m right every damn time. Maybe that’s why I trust so few people. Not because I think everyone is bad, but because I see patterns before others admit they exist.
The conversation slowly turned into relationships—how they work, how they’re supposed to work. I said something that made the room uncomfortable.
For me, it’s either 0 or 1.
Either you’re with me completely, or we’re not together at all.
Some disagreed instantly. They said boys and girls can be friends. That women can have feelings for many people and still be loyal to one partner. Loyalty, they argued, isn’t threatened by friendliness.
Someone asked me, half-jokingly, “What if your partner feeds a friend? Or a colleague?”
Yes. I would be offended.
I don’t believe in that kind of friendship. Not because I want to cage someone, but because of what love means to me. I believe in crazy love stories—the kind where there are thousands of adjustments, sacrifices, compromises—but all of them stay between two people. The moment a third person enters that emotional space, something changes. Feelings don’t need labels to exist. And I can’t live with that ambiguity.
That’s where it ends for me.
My friends say this mindset comes from a lack of experience. Maybe it does. But this is still my truth.
To me, love is simple and terrifyingly absolute.
It’s us. It’s always us.
If she wants to go, I won’t stop her. I’ll never beg, never hold someone hostage in a relationship. But she cannot be half with me and half with the world. I believe in being able to shout in a room full of people: Try all you want to make my girl fall for you.
If she responds—she was never mine.
That’s it. No drama. No blame.
Love, loyalty, honesty—these are not negotiable concepts for me. They exist strictly between two people. So yes, if she hugs someone else, holds someone’s hand, feeds someone, sits on someone’s lap—they might call it friendship. I call it cheating. And in that moment, she is no longer mine.
I would rather stay alone for the rest of my life than share a love that constantly asks me to compromise my peace.
I will never wish her harm. I will never speak badly of her. She may be perfect in her own world—but she doesn’t belong in mine.
People tell me it’s normal. That even if she shares a room with someone, loyalty is a choice. Maybe. But if she needs to test loyalty in situations like that, she’s not meant for me.
They say that after a certain age, having a partner becomes important. To me, love is not about age or fear of loneliness. Love is peace. Love is devotion. Love is god-like in its purity. I don’t want a partner I can’t admire, can’t respect, can’t quietly worship in my heart.
They ask, What if she’s just friendly with everyone? What if that’s who she’s always been?
That’s possible. I’ve seen people like that. And I walk away.
Maybe my experiences have been bad. Maybe I haven’t seen enough of the world. But to me, love is falling for the same person again and again. It’s making each other feel chosen every single day. It’s caring deeply, painfully, beautifully—with one person. Through everything good and bad.
I know how this sounds. Toxic. Old school. Too rigid. Drawing harsh boundaries.
But that’s who I am.
I don’t understand swipe-left-swipe-right love. Love that feels like a transaction—payment successful, she’s yours; payment failed, move on. That kind of love doesn’t move me. It doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t make me better.
I don’t want experience.
I want truth.
I want passion.
I want devotion.
I want the one-and-only kind of love.
Maybe I’ll never find someone who believes in all of this the way I do. And that’s okay. Until then, I’m out—out of casual loves, out of Instagram romances, out of modern compromises that ask me to shrink myself.
I’d rather be alone than be half-loved.
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