OH TO BE LOVED
The shrill sound of the alarm pierced through the silence. I opened my eyes slowly, the coldness of the floor still clinging to my bones. Sitting up, I dragged my hands over my face, trying to shake off the heaviness that sleep hadn’t taken away.
When I stood up, my eyes drifted to her. She was still asleep. Peaceful… like none of the chaos between us had ever existed. Sunlight slipped through the window and rested gently on her face.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Then I walked to the window and pulled it shut, blocking the light. Not because I cared… but because it felt wrong to let something disturb that rare, quiet version of her.
I turned away quickly.
The bathroom mirror showed a face I barely recognized—tired, restless, caught between anger and something softer I refused to name. I brushed my teeth, let the cold water run over me, hoping it would wash away the thoughts clinging to my mind. It didn’t.
Today was my first day at the hospital.
The job she got me.
The thought sat heavily in my chest. Gratitude felt wrong. Pride felt wounded. And somewhere between them… was silence.
After getting ready, I walked into the kitchen. The house was still quiet, like it was holding its breath. I started making lunch for her eat at afternoon.
After cooking, I packed a portion for myself and left the rest for her. I avoided spices, toned everything down—bland, careful. Not because I wanted to… but because her medicines demanded it.
I poured myself a cup of tea and leaned against the kitchen counter, letting the warmth of it settle between my fingers. The house was still quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t comfort… but lingers.
I took a slow sip.
And somehow, my mind went back to last night.
Every word I threw at her. Every accusation. Every truth.
They echoed now, softer… but heavier.
Yes, I meant everything I said.
Every single word.
But…
I closed my eyes for a brief moment.
For some reason, saying it and hearing it again in my head felt different.
After finishing my coffee, I packed my bag with the things I would need. The routine felt familiar… almost comforting. A small piece of my old life, untouched by everything that had changed.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked toward the door, ready to leave.
But something made me stop.
I turned back.
She was still sleeping.
Unmoved. Quiet.
For a second, I just stood there watching her. The same girl who could burn the world down with her words… now looked like she had nothing left to fight with.
I sighed and walked back into the room.
Carefully, I took out a pen and a small sticky note from my bag. Leaning slightly closer, I scribbled a few words.
I have made breakfast and lunch. I’m leaving for work. Lock the door.
I stared at the note for a moment… then without thinking too much, I gently stuck it on her forehead.
She stirred a little but didn’t wake up.
I straightened up quickly, as if I had done something I shouldn’t have.
Then I turned away and walked out of the room.
Without looking back.
Sleep clung to me like a weight I couldn’t shake off. My body felt heavy… drained… like even breathing needed effort. I wanted to stay there, wrapped in nothingness, but the dull ache in my body pulled me back.
Slowly, I sat up, careful—too careful—not to disturb my injured arm. Even the smallest movement sent a faint sting through my shoulder.
The room felt different in the morning. Quiet. Still.
Like nothing had happened.
I walked to the restroom, my steps slow, unsteady. After finishing, I looked up at the tiny mirror.
Something was stuck on my forehead.
I frowned and peeled it off.
A note.
His handwriting.
I have made breakfast and lunch. I’m leaving for work. Lock the door.
For a second, I just stared at it.
Then I scoffed.
“Stupid…” I muttered under my breath. “Didn’t find any other place to stick it?”
I crumpled the paper slightly as I brushed my teeth, muttering curses under my breath, trying to push away the strange feeling that note left behind.
He had the audacity to talk to me like that last night.
The audacity.
And me…
I shut my eyes for a moment, gripping the sink tightly.
Since my hormones are fucked up, I ended up crying instead of breaking his nose for talking to me like that.
“Pathetic,” I whispered to myself.
Maybe it was the pain.
Maybe the exhaustion.
Whatever it was…
It made me weak.
And I hated it.
I walked out of the restroom and headed toward the main door.
The metal clicked softly as I locked it.
The sound echoed in the empty house.
For some reason…
It felt like I had locked myself inside more than the world outside.
I ate in silence, the sound of the spoon against the plate the only thing filling the room. My phone rested in my other hand, thumb mindlessly scrolling through reels that I didn’t even register.
Everything felt… distant.
Like I was present, but not really there.
A strange heaviness settled in my body, deeper than before. My eyelids felt heavier, my limbs slower.
“What the fuck…” I muttered under my breath.
I reached for the glass of water and drank it, hoping it would help. But my throat still felt dry. Uncomfortably dry. Like the water never reached where it was supposed to.
I pressed my palm against my forehead.
Warm.
Too warm.
“Oh great,” I whispered sarcastically. “A cold? Fever? With a complimentary sore throat?”
I let out a weak breath and forced myself to finish the food, each bite feeling like a task rather than something natural.
Even swallowing felt tiring.
After I was done, I pushed the plate aside and slowly laid back on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath me, softer than the floor… but my body still didn’t relax.
I picked up my phone again, scrolling without interest.
The screen blurred slightly.
My head felt heavy.
Not the normal kind.
The kind that presses down on you, like something invisible is sitting on your thoughts, making everything slower… duller… harder.
I blinked a few times, trying to focus.
But even that felt like effort.
With a small groan, I shifted slightly, wincing at the pull in my shoulder.
My eyes drifted closed for a second.
Then opened again.
The room felt quieter than before.
Too quiet.
And for the first time…
I didn’t feel irritated.
I just felt… tired.
What am I even supposed to do till evening?
If he was here, I would have fought with him for no reason… irritated him until he questioned every decision of his life. At least that would keep me occupied.
Now…
I just lay there.
Alone.
I let out a small sigh and picked up my phone again, opening a random story. The words blurred at first, then slowly settled into something I could follow.
I used to do this a lot.
Read.
Get lost in fictional worlds where everything made sense in its own strange way. But somewhere in the past few years, I stopped. No time. No patience. No interest.
Or maybe… no peace.
My fingers slowed over the screen.
I used to imagine stories too. Entire worlds inside my head. Characters, emotions, dialogues… like movies playing on loop that no one else could see.
I exhaled softly.
In my stories… the heroine was always broken. Not weak. Never weak. But someone carrying scars so deep that even silence would hurt her.
And somehow…
She would fall in love with someone completely opposite.
A perfect green flag.
The kind of man who would treat her gently, like she was something fragile yet strong at the same time. Someone who would almost worship the ground she walked on… not out of obsession, but because he simply chose her, every single day.
I let out a quiet laugh.
“Delulu is the only solulu” I whispered.
My eyes drifted toward the window unconsciously.
Then I looked away immediately.
Reality was far from those stories.
Here…
The heroine wasn’t someone to be loved gently.
My chest felt strangely tight.
I turned back to my phone, forcing myself to read again.
But the words didn’t feel as comforting as they used to.
Will I ever get someone… who would love me for my flaws?
For my scars?
The thought came quietly, but it stayed.
I stared at the screen, but I wasn’t reading anymore.
“Oh to be loved,” I whispered under my breath.
To be seen… and still chosen.
To be understood… without having to explain every broken part of me.
A small, tired smile touched my lips.
I say all men are trash…
Lowkey… they are.
At least the ones I’ve seen. The ones I’ve dealt with. The ones who taught me what not to expect.
But still…
There was something in my chest.
A quiet, stubborn ache.
A yearning I couldn’t kill no matter how much I mocked it.
To be loved.
Not feared.
Not tolerated.
Not fought with.
Just… loved.
I closed my eyes.
“Pathetic,” I whispered to myself.
Because wanting love…
Was the one thing I never allowed myself to admit.
Even after everything I say, everything I pretend to believe, there is still a quiet corner inside me that refuses to give up on the idea of love.
Not the loud, consuming kind that burns fast and fades quicker—but something slower, something that stays.
A love that grows in the spaces between ordinary days, in shared silences, in the comfort of simply existing beside someone who doesn’t leave.
I think about a life like that sometimes—two people walking side by side as the years slip past unnoticed, until one day they realize their hair has turned grey, their hands have grown older, but somehow their bond has only deepened.
A life where no matter what storms come, there is this unspoken certainty that the other person will still be there, not out of obligation, but out of choice.
To be loved like that… to be chosen like that… feels almost unreal. Not just in moments of happiness, but in the difficult ones too—in anger, in silence, in the days when one feels unlovable. To have someone who doesn’t turn away, who doesn’t walk out, who stays even when staying is hard.
And somewhere, buried beneath all the denial, there is a longing—not just to be part of someone’s life, but to matter in it.
To be present in their most fragile moments, to be someone they hold onto when everything else begins to fade.
To be included even in the last seven minutes of a man’s life…
when words grow scarce and time feels heavier…
and yet, in that quiet ending, they still reach for you.
Maybe it is foolish to want something so gentle in a world that has only been harsh to me.
But some part of me still does.